


Shadow Aspect

by Kryptaria, reluctantabandon



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, M/M, Magical Realism, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-04 05:22:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria, https://archiveofourown.org/users/reluctantabandon/pseuds/reluctantabandon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On 1 April, 1997, the comet Hale-Bopp passed perihelion, approaching the Earth closely enough to cross the barrier between one universe and the next.  In the space of eighteen months, Gates opened throughout both worlds, allowing communication and, eventually, physical transition. Suddenly, two worlds that had only connected in song and story intersected, and the resulting culture shock was cataclysmic.</p><p>Almost sixteen years later, cautious diplomatic advances culminate with Great Britain’s formal recognition of the Court of the Shining Throne. As the foreign intelligence arm of Her Majesty’s Government, MI6 is tasked with assisting in ensuring the security of both the UK and her new allies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BootsnBlossoms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/gifts), [Jennybel75](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennybel75/gifts).



> For Jennybel75, an intentionally belated birthday gift, and for BootsnBlossoms, who needs the cheering up.
> 
> Thanks to our co-conspirator, beta, and cheerleader, CousinCecily, and to Honeybee221B for wrangling us back into line when we go astray with plots and consistency issues.

**_Queen receives Shining Throne delegation at Buckingham Palace_ **

_Britain has risked opening a rift with the United States by formally receiving ambassadors from the Court of the Shining Throne._

LONDON, AP: Queen Elizabeth is scheduled to meet today with a formal delegation from the Court of the Shining Throne, colloquially known as the Seelie Court. The Queen will be receiving a Letter of Credence from the Shining Queen, presented by the Ambassador Extraordinary of the Court of the Shining Throne, Her Grace Illimiel, Light-Gatherer. Ambassador Illimiel is joined in the delegation by His Grace Kaliriel, Keeper of Shadow's Song, and Minister of the Court of the Shining Throne, His Excellency Arlanthas, Nightstar of the Queen. [Click here for the photo gallery.]

Political analyst John Kirkwright says regarding the envoy from the Shining Throne, “This meeting between the Queen and the representatives of the Seelie Court will be seen as more than a prudent political move on Britain’s part. Other first-world nations will be concerned that Britain will become the gateway toward allowing the Seelie to establish a permanent political foothold in England, the EU, and eventually the UN as well.”

The US Ambassador, Peter Jenkins, was unavailable for comment, but in a speech before the House of Commons last Friday, Jenkins warned the representatives about contact with the envoy and especially with Ambassador Illimiel. He further stated that any olive branch extended to the Seelie Court would prejudice the US seriously against further relations with the UK.

Ambassador Illimiel is best known for giving the first bilingual televised speech in both High Elvish and English, expressing the wishes of the Shining Queen to open diplomatic relations with ‘all the nations of Earth.’ [Click here to view the speech.]

 

~~~

 

**Monday, 14 January 2013**

“Bloody nightmare,” Alec Trevelyan muttered from the narrow room where he and Bond were stationed, looking out over the courtyard in front of Buckingham Palace. The paved gallery, usually used only for the changing of the guard ceremony, had been cleared out save for two groups of Household Guard in their finest red and black uniforms. lined up to either side of an aisle from the outer gate to the inner.

“Radio protocols please, 006,” came Q’s voice over the comms.

“Well, it is,” Alec complained. “The crowd’s bigger than it was for the Royal Wedding, and there are rumours that the carriage from the gate will be drawn by anything from unicorns to bloody dragons. What do we do if they start eating the crowd?”

“I can guarantee that the diplomatic mission will not include dragons,” Q said dryly. “If you and 007 would please verify your ranges to your assigned target locations: exterior Mall, exterior courtyard, and interior courtyard, in that order.”

Alec and Bond exchanged a look. Significantly, Alec turned off his mic’s voice-activation. When Bond did the same, Alec asked, “Does he sound tetchy? He sounds tetchy. You’d think he was out here since fuck o’clock in the bloody morning with only stale pastries for breakfast.”

Bond snorted. “Not bloody likely.” He leaned over to check the range through the spotting scope, fiddling a bit with the dial. “Range to exterior mall verified, seventy-five metres.” He glanced at Alec and grinned. “Maybe we can wind him up a bit more, hmm?”

Slowly, Alec returned the grin and ducked his head to his rifle. Though he didn’t answer right away, Bond knew how he thought. They’d been best friends for going on twenty years. “Not very nice, playing with the new Quartermaster. We’ve only had a couple of months to break him in. Seventy-five,” Alec confirmed with a laugh as he took the spotting scope from Bond. “That’s a ‘yes’, in case you were wondering.”

“Couple of months should have made sure he’s dropped his guard a bit.” Bond verified that the ammo they’d brought was within arm’s reach. He adjusted the scope of his rifle slightly to compensate for the brisk breeze that had begun to skate through the courtyard. “We can’t play with him too roughly, though, or M will scold us.” Raising his head slightly, he looked out over the crowds below them. “Next range, your point.”

“Heaven forbid, a _scolding_ ,” Alec said, struggling to contain his laughter as Bond took back the spotting scope. He adjusted his point of aim and flipped his scope to the second preset. “He didn’t do too badly against Silva, and that’s despite HQ all but collapsing under his feet. Sixty... two and a hair. Call it sixty-two. That’s to the second rank of waterlogged Home Guards, poor bastards.”

“All the more reason to sound him out,” Bond replied. “Sixty-two. He did well under extreme pressure, but maybe he can’t keep it together under the normal, everyday grind. We’ll be doing MI6 a service if he breaks now.” He grinned back at Alec and handed over the spotting scope. “Anyway, I doubt we’ll even get away with planning anything; he seems to know what we’re up to before we do sometimes.”

They moved out of the room — a tiny linen cupboard whose window existed solely to present a symmetrical facade to the world — and across the hall to the office overlooking the interior courtyard. Their secondary rifles were already set up on bipods and shooting stands, with magazines of iron-tipped ammunition laid out. No one wanted to imagine that they’d have to shoot the delegates; no one wanted to take the chance of being unprepared if they did.

“All right. How’s this, then?” Alec proposed as he sat down on an appropriated seventeenth-century gilded dining chair. It creaked under his weight as he leaned in, taking hold of his rifle. He flipped on his mic and said, “Base, this is 006. Did you miss us, Q?”

Bond grinned at Q’s deep, long-suffering sigh. “You’re late checking in. You and 007 only need to verify three ranges each.”

“We missed you,” Alec said, disregarding Q’s hint to get on with the business at hand. “Isn’t that right, James?”

Bond thumbed his mic on. “That’s right, Alec. Sorry, Q, we’re only late because we were discussing your many charms.” Alec barely suppressed a snort. “First two ranges verified at seventy-five metres mall and sixty-two metres exterior courtyard. Give us two minutes to verify the third; we promise we won’t dawdle this time.” Turning off the mic again, he gestured to Alec to do the same. “He’s more your type than mine, Alec, with that willowy build; how do you want to play it?” He took the spotting scope from Alec and slotted it carefully into the waiting tripod, then squinted out the window at the courtyard. “Fucking snow. Never decent weather when you need it.”

“At least we’re in here and not out there with those poor bastards. Makes you long for the desert,” Alec answered with a shrug. “Precisely forty here — that’s to the spot where the carriage should pull up, assuming they don’t get the dragons to charge right in through the doors. As for the Quartermaster, he’s a little... geeky for my tastes. And obviously you haven’t been to the bistro across the bridge lately, or you would’ve seen their new waitress.”

Bond chuckled. “Well, geeky or not, it’s your move. If we’re going to make him squirm a bit, we’d better do it before the actual delegation arrives.” He bent to the spotting scope. “Confirmed, forty. How long d’you think we’ll have to wait? The carriage is supposed to arrive at ten, but the Seelie aren’t exactly known for their punctuality.”

Instead of answering, Alec turned on his mic again. “Range to interior confirmed forty, Q. Do we have an ETA on either the Seelie delegation or on some decent bloody tea and sandwiches?”

“They’re the ambassadors of the Shining Throne, not the Seelie,” Q answered primly, “and they’re not scheduled to arrive for another twenty... three minutes. If you want sandwiches, I’ll pass along the request. Any further _business_? I have four other sniper teams to coordinate, 006.”

“Well, yes, but we’re your favourites,” Alec answered.

Dryly, Q said, “HQ to radio silence — at least for you two,” before there was a very definite _click_ over the comms.

Bond startled himself by laughing aloud. “Oh, he’s good. Told you he’d know we were taking the piss.” He stretched, cracking his back and rolling his head and shoulders to ease the muscles. “I hope he doesn’t send us bloody cold tea and mince.”

“If he does, it’s your fault. Just because he’s not your type doesn’t mean you couldn’t have worked a bit harder at that,” Alec said as they both went back across to their first station. “But cheer up. Even if he sends us rubbish for brunch, maybe we’ll get some adorable serving girl with the tray. You can chat her up while I impress Mallory with my diligence and professionalism.”

Bond snorted. “Of course. Because he’ll believe your version. Tenner says Q sends two trays, three courses each, by way of the ugliest male agent he can find.” He grinned again. “I think he likes us.”

 

~~~

 

Contrary to predictions, the delegation from the Seelie Court — _Shining Throne_ , Bond mentally corrected himself — showed up on time, judging by the sudden storm of crackling purple and black lightning that sliced through the sky at the newly created Grove Park. When the Gates between universes had torn open, the locations hadn’t always been ideal. The London Gate had appeared in the middle of a block of offices and flats. Eventually, the buildings had been torn down, and the City of London had finally authorised a park built to contain the wild, lush plant growth caused by the spill of Gate energy.

But it was still another thirty minutes before the delegates actually came into view, escorted down the Mall by everything from full dress representatives of Her Majesty’s armed forces to three RAF helicopters and a full motorcycle gang from the Met. Bond had lost the coin toss to Alec, who had the spotting scope trained on the Mall, forcing Bond to use his rifle scope to watch the parade.

He saw the reindeer first. Oh, he knew they weren’t reindeer — they were too small, for one thing, and the antlers were all wrong — but his mind struggled to assign a proper, familiar name to a creature that had never walked the earth before. They were the size of large dogs or small ponies, with charcoal and chocolate fur that rippled like silk despite the rain and snow. Their wide antlers had broad, flat plates between the tines, reminding Bond of the prehistoric moose skulls he’d once seen in a museum. Each one had a leonine mane that went from head to withers to chest, and as they drew closer, Bond saw that their manes were braided with bright bits of silver, like beads or bells.

They were harnessed in single file and trotted in perfect unison. He counted nine before the carriage finally came into view. It was a narrow, segmented vehicle, rather than a single cab on wheels, as if each passenger had his or her own individual compartment. Each segment was low to the ground, with carvings reminiscent of branches and opaque black glass windows. There was no apparent driver.

Though Bond had been given to expect no more than four delegates, another twenty-seven elves escorted the carriage, jogging behind it in rows of three. Contrary to the whims of almost every fantasy artist, they wore tight-fitted clothes, possibly armoured. Each one had crossed weapons over his or her back (and Bond _suspected_ that at least some of them were female, though the shifting colours of their forest camouflage clothing made it difficult to see details). Their faces were hidden behind helmets and half-masks shaped like individual animals.

“Lovely,” Alec muttered. “Every little girl on the bloody planet’s going to be harassing her parents for one of those... deer? Antlered dogs?”

“Deer. Look at the hooves,” Bond said absently. He was busy looking through the scope on his rifle, feeling out the distance and watching the movements of the crowd. “Flashy, either way. They’re definitely going for the first impression.” He leaned back, relaxed but watchful, as the carriage finally came within their assigned operational range. Reluctantly, Bond turned back to his rifle — he saw Alec do the same — and they focused on the crowd instead, looking for any threats to the delegates.

“They’re called thyrisial,” Q said, “singular ‘thyris’. According to my information, they’re harmless. They eat algae from the borders of ponds and moss that grows on rocks.”

“Get that from wikipedia, did you?” Alec asked.

Q sighed. “Any threats sighted?”

Bond smirked and raised his eyebrows, glancing at Alec, who rolled his eyes in reply and returned to look through his rifle sight. “No threats at present. Clear so far from my end. Alec?”

“Short of drowning or frostbite, no threats,” Alec said, sounding disappointed.

“Thank you, gentlemen. Radio discipline,” Q reminded them, before they heard another _click_.

“He likes us,” Alec said, without turning off his mic. “Told you. We’re bloody fantastic. Of course he likes us.”

“Of course he does.”

 

~~~

 

The plan, as far as Bond recalled, was that the carriage would enter the outer courtyard and hold position for a review of the Home Guard’s drill — whatever it was they were doing. Bond knew the marching band was waiting somewhere and expected the customary rifle drill, coordinated marching, and whatever else they could get away with in this bloody miserable weather.

Apparently no one had told the elves that.

As soon as the reindeer — thyrisial — drew the segmented carriage into the courtyard, each section opened like a clamshell. The four delegates stepped out into the slushy rain, utterly unconcerned for the state of their flowing, ornate clothing. Bond couldn’t really tell from his vantage point, but it seemed as if, despite the weather, the Shining Court emissaries remained untouched by rain or wind. As the assembled UK soldiers hurriedly scrambled to make sense of this abrupt change of plan, their hair and garments blowing in the storm, the delegates stepped gracefully forward and were immediately surrounded by the warrior contingent.

Bond squinted. It looked as if there was a kind of shimmer between him and the Sidhe delegation. “Alec, are you seeing that?” he asked sharply. He caught Alec’s nod in his peripheral vision, and frowned as a gust of wind blew heavy, wet flakes of snow across his line of sight.

“HQ, visual distortion around our visiting assets. Can you pick it up on camera?” Alec asked into his mic.

“Checking now,” Q answered steadily.

Bond watched as the soldiers took up positions to the sides of their dignitaries without ever getting in the way. Their movements felt more ceremonial than protective, though he had no doubt that they were ready to defend, if necessary.

“They’re good,” Bond murmured.

“Clarify, 007?” Q prompted.

“The Sidhe warriors make it look easy,” Bond said. “Just enough coverage without seeming overwhelming. They’ve dominated the field while keeping the whole operation low-key enough that it doesn’t seem as if anyone but me” — he saw Alec jerk his head sharply — “us has noticed.” He frowned a bit, and moved to the spotting scope for a more sweeping view. “The Home Guard should be taking note of this and deploying equal numbers. Why aren’t they?”

“It’s taken years of negotiation to get this far,” Q answered calmly. “Neither Queen is going to take the risk of ruining it all to play a numbers game. Besides, this is a sign of respect.”

“How the fuck do you know that?” said Bond sharply. “It’s not as if you’re social secretary for MI6. I don’t —”

“I do receive all executive briefings, 007,” Q interrupted on a sigh. “Including a psychological analysis of formal Shining Throne etiquette. There are people who’ve made careers of watching the thirty-seven hours of extant footage, so kindly do _listen to me_.”

“Ow,” Alec said, throwing Bond a smirk.

“A show of military strength is meant to be a sign of respect towards the other party — an acknowledgment of the other party’s strength. Please refrain from shooting anyone unless an _outside_ threat presents itself,” Q went on.

Bond could feel his jaw tighten. “It’s my job to evaluate anything I perceive as a threat, Q.” He adjusted his trigger finger slightly on the outside of the trigger guard. “And I’ve just informed you of something out of the ordinary. Thank you for the clarification.”

Q huffed. “The shimmer,” he said slowly, “appears to be a shield against the weather. It’s not in the visible spectrum, but it’s lit up EM. Most likely interfering with any electronic devices, so be aware that comms on the ground may be compromised.”

“Fucking fantastic,” drawled Bond. “At least we can still hear _you._ ” He glanced over at Alec, who was rolling his eyes again. He took a chance and scrubbed at his face with his left hand, leaving the trigger unguarded and Alec to watch the courtyard. “So the upshot is that the... shield — whatever it is — is benign, and we should ignore it. As long as it doesn’t interfere with long- or short-range targeting, we should be fine.” He hunkered back down over his weapon, looking through his sights at the impassive faces of the Sidhe delegates. Every one of them was compelling, even to Bond’s jaded eyes.

“There’s no evidence that the shield will interfere with manual targeting, 007,” replied Q. “Aren’t the troops on the ground capable of coordinating their actions silently, through hand signals?”

It was Bond’s turn to roll his eyes. “Of course, Q, but it’s always wise to know where we stand. The Sidhe are still pretty much an unknown quantity, so 006 and I need to be on high alert.” He grinned suddenly. “As long as we stay your favorite agents, that is.”

He might have imagined that Q’s sigh was slightly less exasperated. “I appreciate your vigilance in taking the security of this event seriously, agents. Thank you for recognising the delegation as something other than fluffy elves out of fairy tales,” he added, a hint of sharpness in his voice.

Bond raised an eyebrow. “You must be joking. The Sidhe are trained in combat almost from birth, carry swords like most humans carry a wallet, and are capable of lifting about three times their body weight. What on Earth would lead you to think we would underestimate them?”

For a moment, there was silence — long enough that Bond and Alec exchanged a quick look, both clearly wondering if the Quartermaster had shut off their transmissions to do something else. Then Q said, quietly, “My mistake, 007. Thank you.”

Bond smiled to himself as he looked through his sights at the delegation. “You’re welcome.”

 

~~~

 

At precisely ten that evening, Q pulled his nondescript Toyota Camry into the tiny parking lot of a boutique hotel in Camden. The man who exited the car bore little resemblance to the head of Q Branch, MI6. Gone was the cardigan that served to ward off the chill of the underground tunnels, the bland blue tie, the plain white shirt. In their place was a luxuriously soft silk shirt, blinding white, and sinfully tight trousers in black leather that matched his boots with silver buckles up the sides. His coat was matte black leather with silver buttons from throat to hips; the hem flared around his ankles as he walked.

He wasn’t wearing his glasses. His eyes, in the right light, looked more silver than blue.

He hadn’t taken the time to shower, and decided that a shower would be the first order of business at the hotel. That would have the added benefit of removing strong perfume or heavy cosmetics from everyone involved, and he resolved to remember that more often.

The hotel clerk greeted him by name, offering him a key and a friendly, “Good evening, Mr. Wright.”

“Evening, Matthew,” Q responded.

The clerk handed over his room key — an actual key and not an electronic keycard — and said, “Your guests arrived some time ago, sir. Can I send anything up for you?”

“No, thank you. No need to disturb us until morning.” With a farewell nod, Q went up the narrow stairs to the second storey, where the back half of the building was given over to a bedroom slightly smaller than his reception room at home.

He let himself in, and his eyes went right to the two people seated across the room. The woman had gorgeous bone structure under skin so dark it was nearly as black as her neat cap of fine, short hair. She wore a short white dress of sensuously heavy fabric, every inch covered with glittering white beads, clasped over one shoulder with a silver brooch that matched high silver heels. Just looking at her made Q resolve to send the escort concierge a substantial tip.

The man was a gorgeous contrast, though the sight of him was jarring. Blond hair, blue eyes, and a muscular build under a white pleated tuxedo-style shirt and black trousers all combined to remind Q of Agent Bond.

Until today, Q had barely given 007 a second thought. Now, though, the agent’s admiration for the warriors of the Shining Throne had lodged in Q’s mind. In truth, he’d expected the agent to be prejudiced against the elves. Most humans were, to some extent, but speciesism seemed to be prevalent among the military and field agents. The closed-minded attitude raised Q’s hackles... but 007 and 006, his usual partner-in-crime, weren’t that way at all.

The two escorts must have taken his hesitation as a silent command. The woman uncoiled herself from the bed as the man rose from the armchair. They both approached, looking Q over with admiration that was either genuine or expertly faked. The truth of it didn’t matter. They would be well compensated for the night, and Q would do everything in his power to see to their pleasure, having learned that reciprocity was the best way to ensure that he himself enjoyed these nights.

Either they’d talked out a game plan or they were nicely in tune with one another. The man went around behind Q and slid his hands up over Q’s shoulders, while the woman unbuttoned his coat. As soon as the last button came free, the man took the coat, and the woman leaned in for the first kiss of the night. In accordance with Q’s wishes, neither one spoke. He wasn’t paying them for conversation.

Q lost himself in her kiss, loving the heat of her mouth more than the taste of her lipstick. Her dress made a soft sound like wind through twigs as she pressed up close to his chest. Once finished with Q’s coat, the man came up behind him and kissed the back of his neck, nudging his hair aside.

Closing his eyes, Q let himself be trapped between them, shivering as the touch sent shocks down his spine. He absolutely refused to think about 007; this man’s identity didn’t matter, and Q firmly pushed the resemblance out of his mind. Under their touches, he forgot about the shower, forgot about her lipstick, and decided that the bed would be the perfect way to start the night. They could shower later.


	2. Chapter 2

**Wednesday, 16 January 2013**

Q Branch had never moved back above-ground after the MI6 building had been rebuilt. Instead, the department spread through the warren of tunnels so quickly and smoothly that Bond could almost imagine they’d planned to be forced out of their old second-floor labs. The building was generally safer — fewer fire alarm drills and no strange odour of burnt plastic lingering by the east stairwell anymore — but it was no longer convenient to pop by Q Branch to see if anyone had left explosives on an unguarded desk or workbench. Now, one had to have a _reason_ to venture down into the tunnels, or the visit would look suspicious.

Bond pushed through the fortified glass doors into Q Branch, marvelling again at the restructuring that had occurred since this Q had taken over from Major Boothroyd. The tunnels had retained some of their original gloominess, but the efficient organization of the floorplan offset any lingering sense of being underground. Instead of the cubicle farm that the former, upstairs facility had resembled, large tables dominated the centre space. Each table was occupied by a few Q Branch members, working and collaborating on projects, moving freely between islands of conversation. Cubicles were limited to the wall space, where Bond saw several techs absorbed in their work, most wearing noise-cancelling headphones. The contrast between the white tables, softer white floor tiles, and rich russet brick walls in this area was actually soothing. And the UV full-spectrum lighting that Q had ordered installed made the space seem larger than it actually was — quite a feat, considering that this section of the tunnel was cavernous.

Bond watched heads attempt not to turn and watch as he strolled through the space toward Q’s office. A blast-proof wall of six-centimetre ballistic glass separated Q from the rest of his senior technicians, but allowed him to survey his domain at will. Q standing at his terminal, watching a huge display of what looked like the London Underground on the wall before him.

No, not London. Moscow, Bond recognised, which just showed that he’d travelled the world a bit too often.

In a fit of security overkill, the door had an electronic badge-reader, a biometric sensor, and a manual latch used to disengage the heavy bolts that would sink into the metal frame when the door was closed. The badge reader was illuminated red — locked — but the biometric security was turned off, meaning Q was accepting visitors, as long as their badges were at the proper level. Without the right badge, Bond could shoot the door all day and never even interrupt Q’s music.

Swiping his badge, Bond expected the usual jarring buzz; instead, he was pleasantly surprised by a muted tone, almost like the sound of a Tibetan singing bowl. The badge reader indicator shifted from red to green, and the massive steel bolts disengaged with a distant clunk. Bond turned the manual latch and pushed the door open.

He was surprised to hear music — heavy, sensual music, all slow drums and bass and a duet singing as though caught in the act of making love. Q straightened from the desk where he stood and peered over the monitor at Bond. A slight frown creased his brow, almost invisible under his messy fringe.

“007.” He moved one hand on his desk, and the music went silent.

“Don’t turn that off on my account,” Bond said with an easy smile. “Not exactly what I expected you to listen to, but I like it.” He glanced around the office, noting several computer workstations, both Mac and PC, and a table covered with electronic devices in various stages of assembly. “Love what you’ve done with the place.”

Q was looking at him strangely, as if he’d done a particularly interesting trick and now Q had no idea what to make of it. “Was there something you needed?” Q asked, frowning at one of his monitors. After another few quick clicks, he said, “You’re not tasked to a mission.”

Bond smirked. “Do I need a reason to visit my favourite Quartermaster?” He moved closer, strolling around the desk until he was almost, but not quite, in Q’s personal space.

Q appeared just as ordinary as he had during the Silva incident, with his glasses and messy hair and boring clothes. But as Bond looked more closely, he saw that what appeared to be a plain white poly-cotton shirt — the type you could get in a three-pack — had a tight, thick weave, and the stitching as perfect as anything Bond’s tailor made for him. The fabric looked soft, and Bond’s fingers itched to touch. His trousers, too, lacked the crisp pleats and faint sheen of wool; Bond suspected they were flannel wool, just as soft as the shirt.

There wasn’t a hint of intimidation in Q’s expression as he turned to regard Bond. “I’m your _only_ Quartermaster,” he corrected, “because none of my team leads will work with you or your cohort, 006 — not to mention three other troublemakers in the Double O programme. As department head, it falls to me to attempt to impose some semblance of order upon the five of you.”

Bond chuckled. “You like us because of the chaos; admit it, Q. We’re your least boring agents, and for some reason we seem to keep getting the most exciting missions.” There was some sort of scent in the air, something he couldn’t quite identify; it was tickling at the back of his brain. He breathed in deeply, focusing for a moment, then shook his head abruptly. It was gone.

“Some would call them exciting, yes,” Q said blandly, not even looking at Bond as he returned his attention to the computer. “Or perhaps you lot are the only ones not mad enough to _refuse_ them.”

Bond hummed in agreement. “It does seem that way sometimes. And yet, we’re the ones that HQ turns to again and again for the dangerous missions. We’re the real outsiders, the ones who don’t fit in here, so we find it much easier to fit in... elsewhere.” He stopped and looked at Q, eyes narrowed. “You don’t really think we’re mad, do you? You wouldn’t send us out if you did.”

He reached to the other side of his computer and picked up his mug. The faint background scent came to Bond again, only this time, he identified it as bergamot. Earl Grey tea. How very _tourist_ of him.

“I’m an engineer, not a psychiatrist, 007. It’s not for me to judge your sanity,” Q said with a deep sigh.

“Of course not,”said Bond smoothly. He moved away from Q again, strolling around the central workstation to peer interestedly at the mass of wires and components on the electronics table. He kept a peripheral eye on Q and fiddled with his tie as he went. The feel of the cool silk under his fingers helped him concentrate. “I know your best work for MI6 has been in design; so why did you leave R&D to become Quartermaster and end up running agents like me?”

“If you have an objection regarding my management of Q Branch, please take it up with M.” Q turned to look at him, though it was a brief glance at most. “Did you _need_ something, or are you just bored? I’m certain there’s more than enough backlogged paperwork you’re neglecting. I receive copies of all the requests from Admin, Intentions, Analysis, Comms...” He paused, glancing up thoughtfully. “I _think_ that’s it, unless you’ve managed to irritate Security or Building Maintenance. Have you?”

“Mmm, no,” said Bond, approaching Q’s desk again.

“Feel free not to take it as a challenge,” Q muttered before he sipped his tea.

“I’m just curious about you, Quartermaster. Why do you do what you do? What makes you tick? You’re the leash-holder on my missions; I feel as if I need to get to know you better.” He leaned back against the workstation and crossed his arms, grinning at Q.

“Your security clearance allows you to review my file as was presented to the budgetary committee. Education and work history are all that could possibly be relevant to your interest.” He looked away from the screen again, meeting Bond’s eyes. “So why are you _really_ here, 007?”

Bond paused for a moment, pursing his lips. His gaze sharpened on Q, and his eyes narrowed as he took in Q’s appearance again, so deceptively bland. “You’re not all you seem to be on the surface, Q,” he nearly purred. “I’d _really_ like to know what you’re hiding.”

“Fortunately, I make it a point not to mix the professional with personal, so your usual interrogation technique won’t help at all,” Q told him. He took another drink, put the mug down, and then returned his hands to the keyboard. “Try hacking my files. I always find that to be very helpful.”

Bond laughed again, and was surprised to feel that his amusement was almost genuine. “I’ll keep that in mind. Although I’m sure that your files are so deeply encrypted I’d need magic to figure them out.”

“You know magic is incompatible with technology — assuming you could even find a specialist willing to work for you, _and_ that you could get that specialist into MI6.” Q glanced at him. “MI6 is human-only.”

Bond’s bark of laughter really was genuine this time. “You’re naive if you think so, Q.” He turned to face the other man, smile fading as he noticed Q’s sudden stillness.

“If you have knowledge of a security breach, 007, you need to report it immediately,” Q said very quietly. “It’s treason otherwise.”

Bond shook his head, sharp blue eyes intent on Q’s face. “Not what I meant,” he said, equally quietly. “But I’ve been working MI6 for a long time now. And it’s in our interest to realize that despite our best intelligence, there are still things out there that can surprise us.” He straightened, adjusted his jacket, and, with a last searching glance, nodded to Q. “Have a lovely evening, Quartermaster.”

He could feel Q’s eyes on him as he went to the door. Only when Bond had his hand on the handle did Q say, a bit suspiciously, “Goodnight, 007.”

Bond grinned and eased the door quietly shut on his way out. This impromptu visit had begun as a way to bait the new Quartermaster, to follow up with what he and Alec had started on Monday, but there was something about Q that caught Bond’s interest. Q wasn’t his type — not at all, in fact — but there was _something_ about him...

 _Loyalty_ , Bond decided as he walked through the workspace, ignoring the technicians. Q should have called Security the moment Bond even implied a breach. Even now, despite the alliance with the Shining Throne, MI6 was strictly off-limits to elves, just as it was to more earthly foreigners. Bond remembered how difficult it had been to get Felix Leiter, from the CIA, into one of the upstairs conference rooms, and that had been _with_ the blessing of the previous M.

But instead of rushing to turn Bond in, Q had issued a warning.

 _Definitely loyalty_ , Bond thought, pleased. It was one thing to respect his new Quartermaster for his ability to perform his job and bring agents home alive from the field. It was something else entirely to see his Quartermaster as something _more_ than just another useful MI6 asset.

And really, up close, Q wasn’t nearly as small and fragile as he seemed. Maybe he wasn’t just Alec’s type after all.

 

~~~

 

Bond and Alec met at Hawksmoor, one of their standard restaurants when they were both in London at the same time. Since they’d added the steakhouse to their rotation, others at MI6 had taken note, and some nights it felt as though the place was half spies, half tourists. Bond would’ve suggested somewhere else, but the steaks were uncommonly good, and he wasn’t about to retreat to a lesser restaurant for the sake of being unique.

“You’re late,” Alec observed, gesturing to the starter he’d already ordered. It looked to have been recently delivered, but Alec had made inroads on both the smoked salmon and the white wine. “I take it you stopped to see the Quartermaster?”

Bond sat down with a stifled groan, immediately picking up a fork to stab at the salmon. “Yes, it was quite diverting. There’s something about him that... doesn’t quite set me on edge, but I feel as if my hackles are prickling a bit when I’m around him.” As usual, the salmon was lovely.

“Do we need to kill him? Just when he was getting entertaining,” Alec complained as a waiter came over to give Bond an unnecessary menu. Chances were, Bond and Alec knew the restaurant’s offerings better than most of the staff did.

“No, no, definitely not. He’s far too interesting.” Bond waved the menu away and ordered the filet with roasted field mushrooms. As soon as the waiter was gone, he continued, “I swear there’s something going on there, Alec. He’s too... tidy. Let’s mess him up a bit more and see what happens.”

Alec quirked a brow. “What’s this ‘let’s’, then? Waitress, remember? Or do you mean a full-on investigation? Break into his house, tail him, the like?”

Bond poked the salmon morosely. “I’m not really sure, to be honest. I don’t think we need to surveil him, yet, but there’s something...” He thought about Q’s seemingly ordinary shirt, and the way it clung softly to him, the weave luxuriously thick despite the bland cut and plain white dye.

“Earth to James,” Alec cut in, nudging his foot under the table. “You with me?”

“Mm,” replied Bond absently. He neatly speared a caper on his fork and assessed it coldly. “Really, Alec, it’s bothering me. He’s young to be a Director, never mind Quartermaster. He oversees the engineering aspects of Q Branch, yet runs the missions of five — _five_ — Double O agents successfully. In fact, he’s got the highest success record of any Quartermaster in the history of MI6, and he’s barely been here...how long has it been? Four months?”

“Well, he belonged to Mallory first,” Alec pointed out. “New senior management, new upper management, new rules and regs. You know how it goes when there’s a change of regime.” He claimed the last piece of salmon with an efficient swipe of the serving spoon. “Whatever he did in his previous career, he managed to impress Mallory, and he did get approved by whatever committee — _Is_ there committee oversight at the department level?” he asked suddenly.

“Not as far as I know,” replied Bond. “The Director of MI6 tends to be a bit high-handed with appointments. Mallory could appoint Trevor Nunn as Ops Coordinator, and only the PM could object.”

Alec burst out laughing, and the distraction let Bond steal half the remaining salmon onto his own plate. “That’d be a sight. You’re right, though. So, that begs the question: Is our new ‘M’ enamoured of this Quartermaster for some reason, or does Q have dirt on him? You can’t fault him, young and scruffy as he is. He’s a damned _good_ Quartermaster.”

“Yes,” Bond agreed. “He’s certainly good at the job; he can handle the stress, and he seems to be able to hold innumerable reins in his hands without dropping any. He’s a juggler. An excellent coordinator. Knows who will work well with whom, and who best to keep apart.” Bond smiled at the waiter as he cleared away the starter plates. “And yet, I still feel as if there’s an element to him that I’m missing, and it makes me want to chase it down.”

“Well, just don’t piss him off,” Alec advised. “Otherwise, we have to start all over again, breaking in a new one, and I’m sick to death of those bloody psych reviews. Apparently you get a black mark in your file if you actually hit the reviewer, which is stupid. He’d told me to express my feelings openly and honestly, so I bloody well did.”

Bond chuckled. “Somehow, I don’t think Q will break so easily. He’s been quite impossible to ruffle up to this point. There’s a solid core there, Alec, I can see it, and damned if I don’t want to know more.” He met Alec’s eyes over his wineglass. “Intriguing seems like too tame a word at this point.”

“Oh, Christ, you’re going to shag him, aren’t you?” Alec asked with a groan. “I thought we’d agreed _no management_ after the incident with... what was her name from Analysis? Vonda something?”

“Shaundra, and yes, we agreed. And I’m not going to shag him.” Even Bond thought his denial was flimsy. He thought about Q’s gorgeous clothing again, and how the long muscles of his throat rose out of the soft white fabric of his shirt. He took a sip of wine. “Well, all right, maybe I’m interested, but there’s no way; he as much said so today.”

“You tried! You buggering bastard. Two days ago, he was my type, and now you’re pawing at him?” Alec shook his head and slouched back in his chair. “And I thought I was bad, after the incident in Beijing, with the two Chinese military analysts.”

“I didn’t paw!” Bond sat back in his chair, playing thoughtfully with his butter knife. “We were just... talking. And he kept deflecting. I’d ask him a question, and he’d slip away like a snake. It was maddening.” He grinned ruefully. “It got me nowhere, and now he knows I’ve got an interest. Wily bugger.”

“Well, it’s about damned time someone tripped you up. You’re getting arrogant,” Alec accused fondly. “You could stand a bit of humility. The last thing I want is you pissing off the wrong person and getting yourself killed. Work would be boring without you to back up some of my more creative strategies.”

Bond chuckled again. “Q wouldn’t damage one of his most important assets. And besides, I think we were spot-on with our evaluation — we really are his favourites.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Friday, 18 January 2013**

“Absolutely not!” Q snapped out just as Bond let himself into the Quartermaster’s underground office. Q was pacing at the back of the room, glaring at the floor as he spoke into a Bluetooth headset. “I am not authorising visitors to” — he cut off for an instant, tossing a puzzled frown Bond’s way — “to Q Branch. Do I need to actually _list_ the safety hazards alone, much less the countless intelligence violations?”

Bond sidled into Q’s office, wary of the Quartermaster’s unaccustomed ire. He hadn’t heard Q’s voice raised this loud in quite some time. Q shot him an annoyed look and pointedly turned his back; Bond grinned and moved slowly around the periphery of the room, finally perching on the edge of the electronics workstation.

“No, I _don’t_ care if — _What?_ ” Q demanded sharply. He stopped pacing and lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, under his glasses. “Sir. No one even knows we’re in the tunnels. What if I move something declassified and a few technicians to the old lab? It’s being used — Of course, no one will notice.” Q let out a sigh, and the tense line of his shoulders eased. “Thank you, sir. No, I apologise. I’ll get people on it right away. Thank you.” He lifted a hand to his earpiece, then repeated, “Thank you, sir,” before he rather pointedly stabbed the earpiece with one fingertip. He pulled it off and tossed it onto his desk with an irritated huff of breath.

“Trouble in paradise?” Bond sat easily on the edge of the table. He felt lucky to have been privy to that conversation, one-sided and cryptic though it was; it showed him that Q could indeed be riled, when the sanctity of his chosen place of worship — Q Branch — was threatened.

Q looked at him, sharp eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “You’re not tasked with a mission,” he said thoughtfully. “And 006 is on a plane for India, so you’ve no one to keep you from getting into trouble, rubbish as he’s always been at that.” He tipped his head, studying Bond as if he were suddenly some interesting experiment or machine that he’d never before noticed.

“Right on both counts,” said Bond, swinging his foot. “I’m here just to see you.” He smiled, letting his face relax and his blue eyes crinkle.

“Lovely,” Q said dryly, going right for his main workstation. “You’re going to help move our most outdated, declassified equipment up to one of Boothroyd’s old labs. There’s a delegation from the Shining Throne that’s been authorised for a tour, as if we’re a particularly deadly zoo, and I am _not_ allowing anyone without sufficient security clearance in my purlieu.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to be one of the main attractions,” said Bond with a chuckle. “Is it a petting zoo, d’you think?”

Q’s fingers twitched on his keyboard, interrupting his typing for an instant. “I’m not letting _you_ near the delegation, 007. You’re simply to herd the technicians and ensure that nothing classified, sensitive, or potentially _interesting_ slips past us. Then you’re going to come back down here and _stay_ until they’re gone. You have until first thing Monday. I hope you didn’t have plans for the weekend.”

Bond narrowed his eyes at Q thoughtfully. “They pale in comparison to being of service to _you_ , Quartermaster.” He rose from his perch on the table and approached Q’s workstation slowly, watching as the younger man’s fingers stuttered slightly on the keyboard once more. “I dare say you’ll make it worth my while eventually.” Bond leaned elegantly on the desk next to Q, hands in his trouser pockets.

Q shot him a quick look, momentarily unguarded, before he turned his attention deliberately back to the keyboard. “I’ll give you a list of what I think will be suitable,” he said quickly. “Add whatever’s necessary to fill the space. Make it look busy.” His mouth twitched. “Blow something up. That adds a certain ‘lived-in’ look to any lab, according to you Double O’s.”

“Oh, I’m sure I can come up with some suitable incendiaries between now and Monday.” Bond grinned, slouching a little. In anticipation of this morning’s visit, he’d worn a new dove grey suit and had chosen a dark blue tie that looked perfect with his eyes. He’d almost changed his mind when he realised the rain had turned to snow, but now he was glad he hadn’t. “I promise not to take out any of the visiting dignitaries.” He deliberately sunk a little lower so he could look up into Q’s face, which seemed rather determinedly turned away. “And I can certainly make a room look busy.”

“Did you miss the part where I said you’d be _here_ while they’re visiting? You’re barely allowed unsupervised entry into enemy territory, 007. I’m certainly not parading you in front of the elves. Bad enough —” He cut off and shook his head, though Bond saw a hint of colour creep into his cheeks. “Your list will be on the main printer out there.” He lifted his hand from his mouse long enough to point out the door. “If you have any questions, ring me.”

Bond chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “Where did the trust go, Q?” He pushed lazily away from the desk, settling his jacket into place with a slow roll of his shoulders.

“Reduced to its component chemicals with the exploding pen you found in Boothroyd’s old storeroom,” Q answered, his dry voice somewhat tense. He was carefully _not_ watching Bond’s movements — so carefully that Bond knew Q was aware of precisely what he was doing.

“Anyway,” Bond drawled, “ I’m sure I’ll have a better time down here in the tunnels. It’s where all the cool kids go.” He touched Q lightly — _very_ lightly — on the elbow, and noted how he tensed but didn’t twitch away. “See you later, Q.”

Bond didn’t look back as he sauntered away. He had no particular interest in overseeing a pack of techs moving boxes and setting up a fake laboratory, but the excuse to needle Q was too good to pass up — good enough, in fact, that he’d even give up his weekend for it.

 

~~~

 

Initially, Bond had some difficulty convincing the techs that he was actually there to help. (For once, his reputation worked against him.) He’d soothed their wariness with a combination of self-deprecating humour, a willingness to help them acquire dollies and pallet jacks, and a couple of illicit smoke breaks on the roof, which he could access with his security pass. By the time they were finished with lunch, he’d convinced them all that he was charming and harmless.

It was foolish of them, but useful to him. He took shameless advantage of his newfound rapport to ask questions about their new boss and how he compared to Boothroyd.

Over the rest of the afternoon and evening, Bond learned that Q was universally regarded as a hard-working, fair, meticulous manager. He refused to compromise an inch on efficiency and safety, but he also allowed his technicians to run free, encouraging them to spend time developing their own innovations. The other quartermasters — those assigned to the other Double O’s, the Stations, and the rest of the field agents — all held him in a special sort of awe. Major Boothroyd had steadfastly refused to run any agents at all; even Bond, as a senior Double O, had been assigned to whatever quartermaster was available. The fact that Q took on the ‘problem agents’ for himself won over his team more effectively than anything else.

And he fed them. He ordered Chinese for lunch, even going so far as to copy Bond on the email asking about allergies and special dietary requirements, and brought in pizzas for dinner.

At nine, he came up to the second-floor lab, looking as perfectly put-together as he had earlier that morning. He regarded the wall of storage boxes, many of them slightly dusty, and nodded as his eyes roved over the dates scrawled on the labels. Not one box was less than twenty years old.

“Excellent choices,” he said, turning to smile at Bond, though his smile flickered a bit as his gaze dropped to Bond’s body. While helping the techs, Bond had stripped off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Now, he was glad he had.

Then the techs swarmed him, distracting him with an explanation of their plan for the lab. He recovered his equilibrium, and Bond heard him ask about such details as a sign on the door, fire extinguishers, and projects at all stages of assembly. He only glanced Bond’s way when he added, “The lab needs to look as though it’s actively in use. _Without_ being entirely burned down, 007.”

Bond tried to look innocent and failed spectacularly, then grinned at Q as he slouched onto a stack of wooden packing boxes, stretching his legs out. “It would look better with some scorch marks on the walls, admit it, Q,” he said lazily. As Q turned to smile at him, Bond deliberately caught his eye and gave him a charming smile in return.

Q took a moment too long to look down at the tablet computer in his hands. “Yes. Well, do try not to set off a fire alarm,” he said distantly, and promptly turned to interrogate the rest of his staff, avoiding turning in Bond’s direction at all. He left as soon as he found the excuse, stopping at the door to say, “That’s probably enough for tonight. We’ll resume tomorrow morning at ten.”

_Ten_ , Bond thought, suddenly wondering what the Quartermaster had planned that would require such a late start. Over the last week, Bond had never seen him come into the office later than a quarter to seven, and that had been after a late night at his desk, running an operation for another of his ‘trouble’ agents.

_Hmm_. Perhaps a bit of surveillance was in order after all.

 

~~~

 

Q’s house was appropriately private, hidden away behind winter-bare trees and walls, Bond thought as he parked down the block. He’d taken a nondescript dark blue sedan from the motorpool, rather than driving his own distinctive Jaguar. The discretion had felt like overkill at first; now, though, he was glad for the stealth. The quiet residential block had nothing more interesting than a fairly nice new BMW, and not even one of the sporty models.

The two-storey brick house occupied an odd-shaped corner lot. The property was surrounded by a high brick wall topped with decorative stone finials at the corners. Only a narrow strip of the front was visible beyond a small, neat walkway leading to a door on the side wall of the house. The lot seemed almost overgrown to Bond’s eye, but the lush growth of trees and shrubs had obviously been painstakingly cared for. Q had pulled his car, an ageing Toyota Camry, into a gated driveway in the back, forcing Bond to park where he could monitor both entrances.

Any hope Bond had of looking in the windows was dashed by the trees and hedges obscuring everything. He could barely see the glow of lights snapping on upstairs, visible through a broad window overlooking the front yard — through the heavy, bare branches of an old tree.

Just as he was debating taking more direct action, such as sneaking onto the property, the upstairs light turned off. Bond sat up, watching as, a moment later, headlamps flared in the back of the house. He could just see the edge of light reflecting on the falling snow as Q’s car exited the property.

Bond grinned. He _knew_ Q hadn’t been interested in spending a quiet night at home.

He used every trick he’d learned to keep from being noticed as, to his surprise, Q drove to Soho. He parked at a public lot, leaving Bond to hastily take the next available turn so he could come back around from the other side. He hoped he didn’t miss Q.

At first, he almost thought he had. Of course, he had no reason at all to imagine the slender figure in a full-length trenchcoat would be Q; a tweed overcoat or tan raincoat was more his style, if not the parka he’d worn to their first meeting. It was the hair that finally caught Bond’s attention, since Q wasn’t even wearing his glasses. After spotting the hair and deciding that yes, it really was his Quartermaster, Bond had to concentrate to keep from slowing down enough to draw attention — especially when Q headed for a nightclub.

A nightclub called Shibari.

Bond found himself only mildly surprised when Q slipped to the front of the queue and was admitted immediately. The street wasn’t too busy, so Bond double-parked for a few minutes to be sure Q wasn’t just ducking in and out, then quickly drove around the block to determine the building’s exits and entrances. There was a dingy alley running along the back of the building, half-blocked with rubbish; otherwise, only the front door allowed access. Bond decided he’d have to take the chance, since there was only one of him; he found another parking lot close by and slotted his car in between two vans. After a moment’s debate, he took off his overcoat and jacket so he could remove his shoulder holster. He stowed his holstered gun under the seat and put everything else back on.

Bond strolled past the club on the opposite side of the road, showing casual interest in the leather, fishnet, and latex worn by the clubgoers in the queue. He considered waiting with them or charming his way past the attendant, as Q had done. Well, then, he would fall back on that old standby: stealth.

A club like this one would go through cases of alcohol every evening, and Bond had seen several large recycling skips in the alley behind the club. He walked by the club, sticking to what shadows he could, and turned the corner toward the alley. Sure enough; when he investigated, he found the back door to the club, with “Shibari” painted in silver spray paint. This was almost too easy to be fun.

He settled himself to wait next to the nearest skip; a glance at his watch showed it wasn’t quite eleven. He could feel the dull thump of bass through his feet and legs, and higher notes seemed to echo off the walls of the alleyway, multiplying in the darkness. Shivering in the snow, Bond waited for about twenty minutes; finally, his vigilance was rewarded by a shriek and a slam as the metal door to the club flew open against the brick. The music was suddenly all around him, a pounding beat that settled itself into his spine and insinuated a buzzing hum across the back of his skull. Voices shouted above the soaring notes, and he heard glass breaking as the club workers threw their empties into the bin. The wedge of light from the door began to narrow, and Bond darted forward and managed to grasp the door handle just before it slammed to. He was in.

Immediately, he recognised the style of music Q had been listening to a few days ago. One more piece of the puzzle slotted into place.

He took off his overcoat and folded it over his arm, wishing he dared hide it somewhere — not that he expected to fit in wearing Savile Row’s finest. He’d have to bluff. He made his way down the narrow service hallway as quickly as he dared, trying to keep a balance between speed and projecting the air of someone who had every right to be where he was. A half dozen cover stories crossed his mind, but he settled on none of them, preferring to instead customise his responses to each questioner.

He passed two storerooms and a tiny kitchen that looked like even chips would strain its cooking facilities before he pushed open the door at the end of the hall, only to walk right into a tall, thin man wearing a black T-shirt with _Shibari_ written in script formed of stylised rope. He stared at Bond for one moment.

Bond muttered a hasty “Excuse me,” and brushed past the man. He didn’t look back, figuring again that if he seemed confident, he could go just about anywhere with ease.

He caught a brief glimpse of the club, noting multiple bars, small stages where individuals or pairs could dance, and several staircases. There were three visible human-sized cages on platforms and a fourth one hanging from a chain, all of them occupied. The club was almost uncomfortably warm, making him wish he could get rid of not only his overcoat but his jacket as well; the suit was winter-weight wool.

Before he got two steps, though, a strong hand closed around his forearm. It was the employee he’d passed earlier. “You look lost,” the man said dryly. “Looking for the coffee bar down the street?”

Bond looked down at the hand crushing the fabric of his sleeve and presented the man with a tight smile, eyes cast downward. “I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed to be touched.” The man’s face changed immediately into a look of dismay, and he dropped Bond’s arm.

“My apologies,” he answered, sounding baffled by the dissonance between Bond’s words and his appearance. Bond nodded once and kept walking toward where the music was loudest.

He relaxed once he was deep into the crowd. _Thank god for Sydney_ , he thought, straightening his jacket. Of course, in Sydney, he’d infiltrated the fetish club with the help of a wardrobe provided by the old Q Branch, electronic surveillance, and a local reconnaissance team from the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation, their equivalent of MI5. At least then he’d known what to expect.

Not that his experience could truly prepare him for the thought that his Quartermaster was here. God, he couldn’t imagine how he’d be able to find Q in this crowd — not without being noticed, at least.

First things first. He got rid of his overcoat at the coat check. He debated leaving the tie and jacket as well before deciding that he might as well stay formal. Maybe he wouldn’t pass unnoticed, but no one in this crowd was looking to hide.

A search of the first floor showed no sign of Q. Three people hit on Bond, despite his conservative dress. The third convinced him to switch the role he was presenting when she grabbed him by the tie in an effort to stop him from walking past her. Before he was conscious of his own actions, he had her wrist twisted up behind her back, her body pressed against a staircase railing.

“I don’t recall saying you could touch me,” Bond growled into her ear. Conscious of his overtrained combat reflexes, he released her and stepped back.

She gave him a sulky look but held up a hand, muttering, “Sorry.”

But he was the one who retreated, aware that here of all places violence was unacceptable. Relieved he hadn’t been noticed and asked to leave, he headed quickly up to the next level of the club, putting distance between himself and the woman who’d accosted him.

Idly, he considered what would happen when the elves of the Shining Throne were turned loose on the world. They were exquisite, at least to most human eyes — even irresistible. There had been a few incidents of elves venturing out among humanity, mostly from unguarded or unknown Gates. Mostly, though, human-elf encounters had been restricted to diplomatic missions, those tentative first steps involving an exchange of language, customs, and culture.

But with the recognition of the Court of the Shining Throne as an independent allied nation, had the UK opened the door not for cultural growth but for criminal misunderstandings that could lead to war? How would an elf respond to being accosted as Bond had just been? How much provocation could an elf tolerate before swords and staves were drawn, either in aggression or self-defence?

It wasn’t Bond’s department, thank god. As MI6, he was strictly a foreign operative, not domestic. But those buggers at MI5 and the Met would have their hands full, once the elven tourists started pouring through the Gate.

Unless... Christ, was _MI6_ going to be tasked with elf-side operations? The thought was exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure.

Now wasn’t the time to think about it. If he was sent to another damned universe, so be it. If nothing else, it couldn’t be worse than Australia. If those deer-things — thyrisial — had come from Australia, they’d have fire breath or poisonous spines. He turned his attention back to his current, much more pleasant mission: finding Q.

The second level was divided in half by a raised aisle leading to another staircase at the far end of the building. To either side was a recessed dance floor, and there were two more bars doing a brisk business in opposite corners of the room. The entire back wall was lined with deep alcoves hung with velvety black curtains, illuminated by tiny halogen lights. Bond could just see glimpses of bare skin and shiny latex.

What in hell was Q doing here?

Well, no. The answer to _that_ was obvious. But Q? Even if his bland, boring clothes were luxuriously soft and carefully tailored, Bond couldn’t reconcile even that Quartermaster with _this_.

And then he was faced with undeniable proof, when a glance off to the side showed a mop of familiar brown hair, tousled to new heights of disarray. Q was dancing with a woman who at any other time would have captured Bond’s eye, with deep red latex straps hugging her curves in what barely qualified as a dress. Now, though, he could only stare at his Quartermaster.

A soft black shirt hung open, framing his chest in shadow. As he spun, body pressed to his dance partner’s, Bond could see the glint of silver at his nipples. His trousers were fitted black leather, laced from his low boots to his hips, showing a thin line of bare skin underneath.

Bond immediately faded back into the shadows near the wall, finding a convenient pillar from behind which he could see both Q and his dance partner. In this partial concealment, Bond felt both more secure and less comfortable. Not that he hadn’t been on his share of ops that included sexy dancing, but _this_ was something else — and his target was his Quartermaster. It felt all kinds of wrong, especially because he wanted to watch.

Q on the dance floor was sinuous, edgy, a study in contrast — pale skin and black fabric, soft drape and hard, contoured muscle. His eyes were closed, and his body moved as if liquid, shifting seamlessly with the rhythm of the music. The woman in red, although graceful by Bond’s standards, looked almost awkward, and the red dress was garish next to Q’s night-coloured clothing. As Bond watched, Q turned and pressed his back against hers, holding a hand out to another dancer, male this time, with a fishnet vest, baggy pirate trousers and buckled boots, and a leather trilby. He moved close to Q, dipping his head to Q’s ear. Bond could see his lips moving, and Q’s eyes fluttering open as he smiled. And that smile... Bond could only call it dazzling, all white teeth and a gleam to Q’s eyes. The smile turned sensual and knowing before Q licked his lips.

His hands dropped low on the man’s hips, and Bond felt something tighten in his chest as Q pulled the man close. The woman in the red dress was gyrating slowly against Q’s back, hands traveling up his body to his shoulders. The man in the trilby pressed forward, and Bond saw Q’s head fall back on the woman’s shoulder, lips parted, eyes closed once more. Trilby pressed even closer; his head bent, and Bond tensed, although he didn’t precisely know what action he would even consider taking.

But the woman in the red dress raised her mouth to Trilby’s, and he kissed her slowly, thoroughly, while their hands smoothed and caressed Q’s body. The kiss broke, and Bond kept his eyes fixed on Q’s face, feeling a rush of arousal as Q squirmed still closer to his partners. He placed a possessive hand on each of their necks, swaying languidly to the pulse and beat of the music. Trilby had his hand in the woman’s hair, tugging gently until her neck was bared; bending over Q’s shoulder, he kissed the junction of her neck and shoulder. Sliding his hand forward, he pulled the fabric away from Q’s neck.

Bond watched Q shudder. Q’s hands dropped as the man pressed his mouth against that fair skin, nudging fabric out of his way as he nibbled downwards. Q arched back against the woman, who wrapped her arms around his waist and began to kiss the nape of his neck. Bond swallowed tightly as the man’s hands swept across Q’s chest, pulling his shirt open, exposing an exquisitely pale torso that gleamed, almost luminous with sweat in the club’s filtered light. The man whispered in Q’s ear again, and again Q shivered, nodding, hands rising to flex against a taut stomach. The man’s head dipped, and Bond got a glimpse of his tongue, flicking against Q’s pierced nipple.

“It’s not worth it,” a voice said, intruding on Bond’s predatory fascination with his Quartermaster. He turned and saw a younger woman, hair tied up in two bunches, wearing a red brocade corset and a ballet-style skirt over torn fishnets and boots. “Whichever one you want, I mean. Not happening tonight.” She gave him a sympathetic smile.

Bond barely spared her a glance, but he smiled anyway and shook his head. “It’s not like that,” he said.

She laughed. “You’re joking, right? You’re looking at them like appetizer, main course, and dessert. And given that those two hate each other, I’d say there won’t be anything left of that main course, if they’ve called a truce to go after him.”

Bond turned to smile at her this time, giving her his full attention. He saw her eyes widen and her pupils dilate as the full force of his stare came into play. “I simply like to watch.”

“Well,” she said, her voice dropping into a purr. “We could always go watch from the couches.” She ran a finger up his arm. “Never even kissed a bloke in a suit before.”

Bond allowed his gaze to drop to her finger, and when it returned to her face, his eyes were like ice. He leaned forward until his lips almost touched her ear. She smelled of clove cigarettes. “I don’t do touching,” he murmured, and he felt her stiffen.

“Sorry,” she said, pouting, and backed away. “Figured I’d warn you is all. Have fun _watching_.” She backed off, looking around for easier prey.

Bond didn’t even bother watching her walk away.

 

~~~

 

They left together — all three of them. There was a brief, heated discussion in the carpark between Trilby and Red Dress, a discussion which Q ignored as he got into his car. He called out something to them and drove off, leaving Trilby, Red Dress, and Bond all scrambling to catch up.

Fortunately, Bond needed only the most basic skill at tailing to follow Trilby and Red Dress, although he had to leave his overcoat behind as they followed Q out of the parking lot, stubbornly arguing for another thirty seconds before they decided to take separate vehicles. Bond followed at a distance, wary that they were ready to get into a crash, the way each was trying to overtake the other, occasionally slipping through traffic lights as they changed, as if whoever reached Q first won some impromptu competition. “It’s not a bloody drag race,” he muttered, twisting the wheel to follow them through an amber light.

To his surprise, they didn’t go back to Q’s house, but to a hotel in Camden — a tiny boutique hotel where Bond would be hard-pressed to follow too closely. He hung back when he saw the other two cars slow down and then pull away. Following at a distance, Bond saw Q’s car in a four-spot carpark behind an electronic gate with a back entrance to the hotel.

Frustrated, Bond went to find a parking spot; he was stuck competing with Trilby and Red Dress, who were both ahead of him, and he ended up far down the street as each of them found better parking.

Bond walked casually down the street toward the hotel, pretending to hunt through his pockets for something as he peered through the front windows. There was no sign of Q or the others; he was just enough behind to have missed them.

“Damn,” he muttered to himself, and sighed. He didn’t even know what he was doing here. Knowing that the Quartermaster had a secret kinky life, one he felt compelled to hide from his co-workers, should have been answer enough. But there was an itch between Bond’s shoulderblades that meant something was still off. He wanted — needed — to pursue this.

The little hotel lobby was warm, with yellow light spilling over plush carpeting. The artwork on the walls was interesting — the type of stuff made from rubbish and sold online at extortionate prices. Bond glanced around; the room was empty of people except for the desk clerk, whose name badge read Matthew.

Bond walked up to the front desk and smiled, eyes crinkling.

“Good evening, sir,” said the clerk, smiling a professional smile that didn’t quite hide his surprise at seeing Bond. “How may I help you?”

“I’m afraid I’m running late. My friends are already here, only they didn’t tell me which room,” Bond said, allowing himself to sound embarrassed. “I didn’t even have a chance to run home and change clothes.”

Matthew sat up, brows raising as he looked Bond over. “Uh —”

“An inch shorter, dark hair that looks like it hasn’t been combed in a month, long coat,” Bond said. “Red dress clearly at odds with gravity. Rather ridiculous black hat.”

“Well, uh, yeah...” he said, gesturing at the narrow staircase. “They’re —”

“Thanks.” Bond grinned and headed that way, saying, “Wouldn’t want to keep them waiting.”

“Yeah, uh... Top floor, door straight ahead,” Matthew called after him, sounding baffled.

Bond ignored him and took the stairs two at a time until he was out of sight. Then he slowed his steps and tried to be as quiet as possible as he passed the first floor landing and continued up. The whole hotel set his teeth on edge; he was used to luxury or squalor, not a bizarre, discordant mix of both, and the idea of rusty wire ‘found-art’ on the walls under Tiffany lampshades made him want to sic the building code inspectors on the place for the tetanus hazard, if nothing else.

The top floor had three doors, only two of which were marked with room numbers. Bond glanced at the two numbered doors, noting the peepholes, and he quickly turned to the third.

Thirty seconds later, he slipped his lockpicks back into his pocket and stepped into a linen closet. He closed the door most of the way, moved a stack of striped bedsheets, and leaned close to listen.

He was tempted to tell himself that there was a chance, however slim, that the two were enemy agents, but even he wasn’t quite that self-deluded.

For a few long minutes, he heard nothing. He moved closer, leaning over the shelf so he could get his ear up against the wall, and finally heard the faint sound of voices — one male, one female, none of them Q’s. They seemed to be breathlessly arguing.

Then Q’s voice cut through the low murmur of voices as he sharply said, “Do stop squabbling, or you can _both_ leave.”

Bond grinned at the familiar tone; he’d heard it often enough at MI6. It seemed to work as well in the bedroom as at Q Branch, because the other voices hushed immediately. Bond heard nothing for a few moments, followed by what was unmistakably a loud, drawn-out gasp and moan.

Bond had answers, but those answers led to more questions. As he silently let himself out of the linen closet and made his way toward the fire escape outside the hallway window, Bond very firmly told himself to stop thinking about just what Q might look like out of those tight black pants and start thinking about how to break into Q’s house.


	4. Chapter 4

**Saturday, 19 January 2013**

It was after midnight by the time Bond parked down the street from Q’s house and stealthily let himself onto the property.

Q had secured himself a high-end alarm system. Fortunately for Bond, it was one with which he had prior experience, and it was a matter of five minutes before he was letting himself in Q’s front door.

The door opened into a sleek white dining room attached to a kitchen. The table was glass, the modern steel dining chairs upholstered in white geometric brocade. The cabinets were white and all of the appliances were gleaming stainless steel.

To the left, a broad archway led into an open reception room, carpeted in muted grey, with a curved brick wall in the centre. Deeply padded white leather sofas surrounded a thick, spotless black throw rug. Bond carefully avoided the throw rug and continued through the room, noting the lack of a telly or any computers.

The curved wall, he discovered, hid a wrought iron and wood spiral staircase from sight. The centre post was wood, carved with a pattern of leafy vines that matched the twisting wrought iron railing. The choice of wrought iron was interesting; according to security briefings, elves couldn’t bear the touch of iron. Was this security or simply an interior design decision?

Beyond the staircase, a little nook by the back door held a loo and the laundry and utility closets. The utility closet had a small exit to a covered patio with a green-painted bistro table and two chairs. Neatly lined up against the side wall, Bond saw the usual array of rubbish and recycling bins.

Deciding to leave the cupboards and cabinets for later, Bond went upstairs. If nothing else, he wanted to verify that no one was home, though the house had a quiet, abandoned feel to it.

The first room, corner right, was long and narrow, and held only a computer desk beside the window. There were three monitors and keyboards on its surface — two PC and one Mac. A black server rack sat against the wall to one side, with at least four PC cases that Bond could distinguish. The cabling was obsessively neat, Bond noted, all of it hidden in channels along the sides and back of the rack and desk. Naturally, the desk was at standing-height, though Q had a high drafting chair.

The second door he tried led to an electronics workshop that fit what he knew of Q’s personality far better than the neatly sterile black-and-white space downstairs. The walls were lined with workbenches and pegboards of tools. The closet doors had been removed for easy access to shelves of plastic component bins.

The third room, Q’s bedroom, was dominated by an immense bed with stylised metal trees instead of corner-posts. The trunks and branches were industrial brushed silver, with brass leaves. The branches converged at the centre of the king-sized mattress, supporting a bird’s nest of silver twigs.

After the showroom-neat house, Bond was actually relieved to see that the bed looked lived-in, with two white down duvets disarrayed against a truly staggering assortment of pillows. In keeping with the monochrome theme of the house, the sheets were soft grey and looked like brushed flannel. He smoothed a hand lightly over the soft surface; when Q had a bedroom this decadent, why would he meet his paramours at a hotel?

He turned and saw an oversized bathtub of grey stone at the far side of the room, half-hidden by a white folding room divider painted with cranes in thick black brush-strokes. The rest of the bathroom was equally modern, with a stone pedestal sink and a mirror set into a frame of branches matching the bed. The only signs of life in the bathroom were the toothbrush and contact lens solution on the granite shelf beside the sink.

A wardrobe was built into the wall to the left of the door. It was deep, divided in two sections: the most bland, boring work clothes Bond could imagine, and more of what Q had been wearing tonight. Bond couldn’t help but run his hands over the array of silk shirts — ruffled and loose or tight-fitted, shirts with lacings and without, all in shades of white, black, and silvery grey. There were silk trousers, too, luxuriantly thick and loose, the type of thing meant to be worn with a lover, rather than out to a club. Next to the silk were clothes in leather: shirts, trousers, short jackets, and long coats. Plain, decorated with straps and silver buckles, laced through eyelets, all of it of the highest quality, possibly even bespoke.

He had just two pairs of shoes for work: brown brogues and black dress shoes. On the other side, though, was an assortment of boots and dress shoes obviously meant to be worn to nightclubs or on wild dates. Bond stood before the wardrobe, trying again to reconcile the staid, buttoned-up Q he routinely saw at MI6 with the fey, sensual creature from the dance club.

Bond caught his own eye in the mirror and smirked wryly at the way his eyes had gone dark with interest. Pushing the thoughts aside, he schooled his face into something more professional, straightened his tie, and headed back downstairs.

The kitchen was the only other room that showed any sign of life. It seemed that Q’s twin hobbies, other than shagging strangers picked up at edgy goth nightclubs, were electronics and cooking. The pantry was filled with ingredients and the cupboards held a full set of Le Creuset cookware and heavy copper pots. He had spices Bond had never even heard of, tins of loose leaf tea, and even a full set of Japanese stoneware for a tea ceremony. Shelves in the mop cupboard just off the kitchen held cookbooks from all over the world. Stuck among them was a grid paper notebook with rough-sketched designs for expanding the kitchen to include an island. Bond, whose fridge usually contained a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, leftover takeaway, and ice cubes, was mildly jealous; he wondered if Q ever had dinner guests, and who they might be. Judging from the twelve-place-setting china service in the second pantry, Q did entertain, but Bond had never heard any talk from staff or other operatives about it.

After a last look around the downstairs, Bond determined that Q didn’t have any hidden safes or other secret compartments in which to keep his clandestine doings. He didn’t even have a gun for self-defence, and Bond knew for a fact that all MI6 management were issued weapons. The lack of anything truly personal — outside his wardrobe and workshop — was in line with Bond’s experience at MI6. Any personal touch could lead an enemy to distant family or old friends to be used against the executive in question, though Bond couldn’t help but feel disappointed. He was certain there was more to Q. Now he’d just have to find out the hard way.

 

~~~

 

It was indulgently late when a tap on the door woke Q from his doze. He’d sent his guests home at some point during the night so he could relax without more of their sniping at one another. Enjoyable as they’d been in bed, their animosity left Q bristling, and he wasn’t inclined to wake up to more arguing. He didn’t need to be at MI6 until ten, which meant he could stay here till nine, giving him just enough time to get home, shower, and change. With a day of moving boxes and disrupting his orderly department for the sake of a dog-and-pony show, he wanted to enjoy the morning, especially after an unexpectedly lovely night.

He got up and went to the door without bothering to dress. Though this certainly wasn’t some cheap hourly hotel, the staff here had seen far more than the occasional naked guest. He opened the door and saw a sleepy-eyed Matthew carrying a breakfast tray.

“Good morning, Mr. Wright,” Matthew said cheerfully. “Since you hadn’t checked out, I thought you and your guest might like some coffee.”

That surprised Q; usually, the staff here were much more attentive. “I’m the only one left — unless one of the others took another room?” he suggested, stepping aside to let Matthew into the room.

Frowning in polite confusion, Matthew carried the tray to the little table by the window, looking around as though expecting to see a third guest hiding somewhere. “I really am certain he came in but didn’t leave. Looked like the bloke who was here on Monday: blond, well-built, nice grey suit... Came in maybe ten minutes behind the other two?”

Q stopped and stared, thinking at first that Matthew was describing _007_. But that couldn’t be possible. Could it?

Unless Bond was following him...

Q raked a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes. His contact lenses were stinging, and he had to resist the temptation to blink them out. “Did he give a name? James Bond, perhaps?”

“No, sir. No name.” Matthew finished uncovering plates of toast, poached eggs, and fruit. He poured coffee for one and then picked up the second teacup a bit awkwardly.

“Hmm. Thank you,” Q said distractedly, and went to fetch his wallet. He tipped more than was his custom, both for the breakfast and the very valuable information.

What the hell was Bond up to now?

 

~~~

 

The Quartermaster who walked into the fake Q Branch workshop at two minutes to ten bore no resemblance to the sensuous creature who’d spent the night in a hotel shagging two complete strangers. Like a chameleon, he fit into his surroundings with perfection, right down to the Saturday informality that had him in a button-down shirt with no tie, top two buttons undone. The only difference between him and all the other men in the room, in fact, was that they wore jeans and Q wore another pair of his soft, stylishly horrid checked trousers.

“I expect we’ll be able to finish today,” Q said as he set a box of pastries down on top of one of the stacks of empty storage crates. “Well done, all. If you need me, I’ll be in my office.”

Bond stepped forward as Q turned to go. “Just the person I wanted to see, Quartermaster.” He gave Q a slow smile. “We’ve got all the equipment you ordered here, but I have some questions about the setup. Shall we?” Bond opened the door and gestured for Q to precede him.

That got him a sharp-eyed look that made him wonder if he’d been spotted at the club last night.  Q said nothing, though; he simply nodded and stepped out, saying, “Yes, we _should_ talk, 007.”

Bond fell into step easily as they walked down the hall toward the lift. “I’d predict that you’ll fool the visiting Sidhe with this setup, but I have no idea what their technological capabilities are. If they use magic to achieve the same ends that electronics do for us, will they be familiar with the kinds of equipment you’ll be showing them Monday?”

“I’ve no idea what they have or haven’t seen,” Q said blandly. “They could understand integrated circuits or be stumped by a toaster. They have no technology at all, as we understand it — just as we have no magic.” He turned and looked directly at Bond as they walked around the corner to the lifts. “Busy night last night, was it?”

“Mmm? Oh, no, not really. Early, actually.” Bond smiled and shot Q a look. Was Q baiting him? Did he know about Bond’s reconnaissance mission? Oh, the _clerk,_ of course. “Certainly not as busy as _yours_ appears to have been.” He pushed the lift button, and then, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets, turned to face Q full on, bouncing on his toes a bit. “I imagine you must have a full social calendar, eligible bachelor that you seem to be.”

“If there’s something relevant to your task as a Double O agent, perhaps you’d find it a better use of _your_ time to simply ask. And if you’re looking for hotel recommendations, try Yelp,” Q said dryly, meeting Bond’s gaze.

As Bond looked back, he couldn’t help his eyes dropping to Q’s lips for a moment, remembering them from last night, parted and wanting. When his eyes met Q’s again, he felt it as almost a physical shock, and he had to force himself not to suck in an audible breath. He actually _saw_ Q’s pupils dilate, and before he could stop himself, he took a step forward. The inch of height difference between them gave him just that little advantage, and he looked down as Q tilted his head slightly back.

“I don’t think hotels are what I’m looking for,” said Bond, his voice gone gravelly. He watched as Q swallowed, and barely Bond restrained himself from following the movement of his throat with a finger. Their eyes met again, and Bond was distantly amused to note that Q’s breathing had quickened. This surge of arousal was nothing new to Bond; the thrill he felt during a successful op was nearly the same. He had not, however, felt this need to seize and take for a very long time.

The lift dinged. The doors opened. Q looked quickly away and stepped in, saying, “If you recall, 007, you were supposed to be supervising the technicians.” He stopped in the doorway and turned, blocking Bond’s entry.

“So, I don’t get to come down to your office with you?” Bond let the corner of his mouth quirk up in a smile. “I’m not _that_ intimidating.” He took a step back, feeling his interest cooling down to a slow simmer.

“I never said you were intimidating at all.”

“No, I suppose you didn’t.” Bond looked at Q speculatively. “I’m getting the feeling that very little intimidates you. Interesting.”

“There’s a reason I’m the one dealing with the difficult agents, 007. You’d destroy any of my other senior team managers, and we both know it.”

Bond laughed. “Yes, we do. All right, I’ll go back to herding cats, and ask my questions later. Thanks for your time, Q.” He smiled again as he turned his back and walked away. He could feel Q watching him all the way down the hall, and it wasn’t lust alone that raised the tiny little hairs all along his spine. There was something more about Q, and it was infuriating for Bond — an experienced field agent — to think that he wasn’t even close to solving the mystery.


	5. Chapter 5

**Monday, 21 January 2013**

_Please report to Q Branch, my office, immediately. — Q_

Bond chuckled into his coffee mug as he read the text. He was across Vauxhall Bridge at the bistro, admiring the attributes of Alec’s waitress friend as he waited for some sign of the visiting dignitaries. Well, Q was notorious for nipping his and Alec’s plans in the bud — he shouldn’t be surprised that his Double O sense extended to Bond alone. Taking a last sip of excellent coffee, he left a rather extravagant tip and made his way back across the bridge to MI6.

Luck was with Bond, though, at least this time. Just as he was crossing Vauxhall Bridge, the wind shifted, swirling the blowing snow out of the way for just a moment — long enough for him to see a motorcade that some idiot bureaucrat probably thought was nondescript. As if an enemy wouldn’t notice five black SUVs driving in near-perfect synchronization?

Traffic, already slow, ground to a halt as outriders from the Met’s motorcycle division blocked the street. A familiar whirr overhead made Bond glance up to see two news helicopters jockeying for the best position to see the elven delegation disembark. From this angle, Bond could see nothing, but it was easy enough for him to plan a path from the parking garage through the lobby, where surely the elves would have a fascinating tour of the historical photos on the wall.

As he emerged from the garage lift into the lobby, his phone buzzed again.

_Immediately means right now, 007. — Q_

Bond sighed and wondered exactly how much he could get away with. On one hand, here he was, with the visiting Sidhe only yards away. On the other hand, if he stayed in the general vicinity of Q’s good graces, he might satisfy his desire to ferret out Q’s secrets that much more quickly. He weighed his decision carefully for all of a microsecond before smoothing his suit jacket and heading toward the front doors.

Perfect timing, he thought, as the cavalcade of black SUVs pulled up to the curb. A flash of his ID badge secured him a spot just inside the lobby, where he could watch through the thick glass rather than standing outside in the snow (which would incriminate him, of course).

Guards opened the SUV doors, all at once. Elves and human dignitaries emerged under the cover of umbrellas, though the elves broke from cover almost immediately, turning to look at the Thames, rather than the building they were to be visiting.

Up close, they were even more fascinating than they’d been through the scope of a rifle, even though they were most likely dressed down for the occasion. At the palace, they’d worn flowing clothes, like mist given form, embedded with radiance that Earth’s couture designers tried to capture with beads and metallic threads. Unlike their guards, all four dignitaries had worn clothing that must have been unisex or ceremonial — wide sleeves, long coats nipped at the waist, and flowing trousers. Now, their coats were knee-length and more closely tailored, and their sleeves and trouser legs were fitted without being tight. Their coats were all monochrome off-white and shed water like a duck’s feathers; Bond could see the melting snow bead on their shoulders and run off in rivulets. Their shirts, visible at the collars and cuffs, looked to be heavily embellished with bright colours and black beads or stones sewn in thin, intricate lines.

None of them gave the helicopters or crowd of cars more than a brief glance. None of them were armed, either, nor was there any sign of their guards. He wondered if it was a matter of trust or negotiation.

Bond watched closely, slipping into his training, and realised that no, it wasn’t the river at all; it was the buildings on the other side, as though the skyline itself had caught their attention. After a moment, though, they gave up their study of the city and allowed themselves to be escorted inside.

_Leave the lobby and come to my office this instant, 007, or you’ll be escorted out of the building, access revoked. — Q_

Bond raised an eyebrow and sighed. It seemed that his little expedition was to be truncated after all. Well, at least he had caught a glimpse of the elven delegates, and he’d have to be satisfied with that for now.

He slipped away, resolved to find out exactly how Q knew he was in the lobby. It had to be the internal security cameras or his mobile. Could Q track his location that precisely? He debated slipping his mobile into someone else’s pocket — maybe even one of the elves, if he could get close enough — but it was a secure communications device, and doing so would get him fired and then shot for treason.

So he pocketed the mobile and went through the internal security checkpoint to the lift that would take him down to the Q Branch tunnels.

Bond drummed his fingers on his thigh as the lift purred downward. He wanted to just ask Q what it was he was hiding, but that seemed like a fruitless avenue, especially since he’d essentially done that once already. He didn’t really want to annoy Q any further, although playing games with him was fun; he was in enough trouble for following Q to the hotel the other night. What if he found out about Bond being in his house, looking through his cabinets, touching his velvet and silk clothing?

Perhaps a different approach was in order. Bond had been the hunter up till now, actively pursuing information about Q. What if he were to back off? What would Q think of a seemingly tame, obedient Bond?

Q’s door wasn’t locked. The office looked just as it had on Friday, except for one cleared worktable with a laptop and a drafting chair. “Get lost on the way?” Q asked mildly without looking up from his own computer.

“Not precisely. I had some business to take care of, but I kept getting impatient texts from my director and had to cut it short.”

“You chose to disregard my instructions,” Q said. He sighed and looked over at Bond, just as the office door made a loud _thunk_. “Lunch will be here in four hours. Coffee and tea are in the back corner,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder before he turned his attention back to his computer.

Bond was taken aback for a moment, but then chuckled. “I take it this lovely desk and computer are for me to get started on my backlog of paperwork, correct? Thanks at least for giving me something to do. I’d hate to have to play minesweeper on my phone for four hours.” He crossed to the worktable, sat down, and quietly logged on to his secure account.

“You have three weeks’ worth of paperwork backlog,” Q pointed out. “And before you get other ideas, this isn’t special treatment. You’re simply the only one of my _challenging_ agents who’s in London for this visit. If 006 or the others were here, they’d be sitting right next to you.”

“Now _that_ would be interesting, indeed,” Bond murmured. He thought of the havoc that he and Alec could wreak on Q’s electronics desk in under an hour. Then, he sighed, remembering his decision to let Q make the next move, and got on with the paperwork he so hated.

 

 ~~~

 

Q refused to look at Bond or even in his direction, but he was all too conscious of Bond’s presence in the office that had become Q’s sanctuary. How in the world could the man be _so disruptive_ just sitting there? It was like having a lightning storm trapped in the office — as if, by the simple act of breathing, Bond’s effect on the surrounding atmosphere managed to inflict some immeasurable change that affected everything it touched.

He retreated to his comfort standby — tea — and ended up buzzing from caffeine before it was even half past nine. Still, he was debating more, staring at the sugary dregs at the bottom of his mug when Bond suddenly moved, and Q looked up as though compelled.

Bond got up from the workstation and stretched. He’d taken off his jacket, and Q’s eyes were drawn to the muscular lines of his back, barely hidden by his tailored button-down shirt and shoulder holster. Then Bond moved towards the back of the room, and Q forced himself to look away, though he listened intently as Bond poured himself another cup of coffee. He came back into Q’s sight a moment later (he took his coffee black, it seemed), and Q’s gaze dropped inappropriately low as Bond hooked a foot around his drafting chair, pulled it close, and settled down at the high desk.

_Lightning_ , Q thought, swallowing down the sugary remnants of his tea. He wrinkled his nose in distaste and turned away, with some effort, to get himself a fresh cup.

“I think there might still be scones out in the bullpen, if I can trust you not to run off to the lobby,” he told Bond as he prepared his tea. He carefully _didn’t_ look at Bond.

“If you have to ask, I’m not sure if you can trust me.” When Q looked up, surprised at Bond’s words, he grinned boyishly and rose. “Shall I fetch you one as well?” He moved toward the door.

Surprised by the polite offer, Q nodded. “Please.” He typed the command to disengage the door lock.

As soon as Bond was gone, Q let out a relieved sigh. He pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes, wondering if this hadn’t been a terrible idea. He could have just put Bond on a plane around the world, thus giving himself a reprieve from watching over him — and _watching_ him — for the rest of the day.

 

~~~

 

Bond felt like an acquitted prisoner as he stepped out the door of Q’s office. It was nice enough for a fortified underground bunker, but he was used to breezing in and out of headquarters on his own time, not to being locked in a bloody dungeon. The bullpen at least felt more open, with its light furnishings and vaulted ceilings. There was a hum of conversation around the break area, where Q Branch (most probably Q himself) had provided its workers with not only a kettle and espresso machine, but a refrigerator, microwave, sink, and dishwasher. On the countertop near the fridge Bond spied a pile of what looked like bakery boxes; upon investigation, he found several different kinds of pastries, including scones. Bond rummaged up a plate in the cabinets and placed a few scones on it. He added two knives, an assortment of jam packets and some butter. He then grabbed several napkins, smiled at the crowd around the break table, and took his offering back to Q’s office.

Q was still standing at his workstation, one hand on his mouse, the other on his mug of tea. He was frowning slightly at his monitors, and the look of intense concentration on his face made him appear closer to what his actual age had to be — no longer the almost-teenager he’d seemed at the museum, when they’d first met.

“Thank you” — he hesitated, lips shaping the ‘B’ in Bond’s name — “007.”

“You’re welcome, Q,” Bond said, snagging a scone and a napkin for himself. “It’s a nice setup out there; the techs seem to thrive on it.” He smiled at Q again and sat down at his laptop, careful to keep the scone well away from the keyboard. He didn’t need Q reprimanding him for soiling Q Branch equipment on top of every other transgression. He suppressed a sigh. Paperwork had always been his least favourite part of the job; at least this enforced work schedule had enabled him to catch up on a few missions’ worth.

“I believe in taking care of my teams, with the hours that most of them work,” Q answered as he started tearing open packets. “Budgeting for a bit of food and creature comfort yields a far greater return on investment than hiring a productivity consultant. They’re too expensive to even be good targets.”

Bond huffed out a laugh. “Most of them are too stupid, as well.”

Q laughed, a surprisingly light, rich sound. “See? Scones are definitely a better ROI,” he said, and Bond looked back just in time to meet Q’s amused eyes. In the basement light, the blue took on shades of green behind his glasses, and he wondered why Q didn’t wear contacts to work.

The look went on just a little bit longer than Bond found... comfortable wasn’t precisely the word he’d use, since looks between him and Q couldn’t really be classified that easily, but it was even more intense than usual. It was full of interest and speculation and thoughts that had no place in an underground office full of MI6 electronics components. Bond spun his chair around to face Q directly, not breaking eye contact, but he didn’t get up. He would wait and see, for once.

“Definitely tastier,” said Bond levelly. He leaned back in his chair and studied Q, wondering again what it was that caused his inner agent to sit up and take notice. Q smiled again and slid his eyes back to his monitor, and Bond watched the line of his neck as it bent over the keyboard. There was something more here than the common lust that Bond routinely slaked in the nearest warm body. This interest went deeper, possibly all the way back to when Q had broken the rules to help Bond lay a trap for Silva. Bond didn't want to just know his body; he wanted to know his mind, his personality, his secrets — everything about him.

For a few seconds, the office was quiet, save for the hum of electronics and ventilation fans and the sound of Q’s quick, light typing. Then the typing slowed as Q glanced up. He went still, meeting Bond’s gaze for just another second, and the electricity between them seemed to snap through Bond once more.

“If you need assistance with your paperwork, I can call in someone from Admin,” Q said as he looked back down at his keyboard — unnecessarily. His voice was steady, but Bond knew Q could probably type with his hands behind his back.

“No need,” said Bond, smiling slightly. “It’s not causing me any difficulties.” He could feel his pulse quicken, and his instincts were telling him to pursue. He ignored them.

Q took a breath and kept typing, resolutely not looking in James’ direction. “Feel free to get back to it, then, 007,” he said, his voice almost toneless, it was so tightly controlled. “I’m certain they’re waiting —” He glanced up, and though Bond knew it was meant to be no more than a quick moment, Q didn’t look away.

The background noise of typing stopped.

After another breath, Q straightened a bit and narrowed his eyes, and the harmless, surprised, _interested_ look turned sharp. “Is something wrong, 007?”

Bond took a breath, blew it out, and ran a hand through his hair, then grinned over at Q. “I’m staring, aren’t I? I’m afraid you’re far more interesting to me than filling out reports.” His smile faded as he studied Q’s face. “I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

Q’s shoulders relaxed a bit. He picked up his tea, though he didn’t drink; he leaned against the workstation, resting one foot up on a box of components that seemed to be positioned for just that purpose. “I was fully aware of your reputation even before joining MI6. I would prefer you not fall back on patterns of behaviour that will negatively impact our ability to effectively work together. Difficult as you are — intentionally, I suspect — you and I both know that you’re one of MI6’s top agents, which is why I’ve said nothing about your activities this weekend. Not that I expect another disciplinary note in your file will be worth the server space it occupies,” he added wryly.

Bond barked out a laugh. “I’d be an idiot to take that as anything other than a compliment,” he said. “At least the part about me being a top agent.”

“Don’t confuse that with being a top anything else,” Q interrupted smoothly as he went back to typing. “Reports, 007. Now.”

Bond snorted, raising one eyebrow, and turned back to his laptop. Had Q just said what he thought he’d said? Oh, now _that_ was an avenue down which Bond’s thoughts could happily run. He shifted his shoulders restlessly, suddenly feeling as if his own skin was a size too tight. He wished he knew what was going through Q’s head at that moment, because his own mind had spiralled down towards the distinctly unprofessional, even for him.

 

~~~

 

Thankfully, Q had anticipated a day of pointless distraction and had scheduled himself for rote, necessary tasks, rather than anything critical. None of his problem agents were in need of immediate support.

Of course, he’d anticipated interruptions from the public relations nightmare upstairs, with pointless questions — not _this_. Clearly, he was an idiot. Of all the things he could’ve done to himself, why had he chosen to lock himself away in his office with _this particular agent_?

Not that the others weren’t interesting. 006, for one, was just slightly better looking, in a classical sense at least. 0014 had the most gorgeous voice and a body to match, though her personality left something to be desired. The others had similar flaws, which had led Q to believe that he was safe running his five problem agents, rather than assigning them out to his senior coordinators. Bond’s flaws, though, were apparently insufficient to let Q completely disengage his interest.

And then, Q had said... _that_ , and now he couldn’t stop thinking about dragging Bond to the somewhat comfortable futon in the break room. Though even that courtesy probably wouldn’t be necessary — not with the way Bond was all but declaring his interest in writing. One quick command to the office’s security system, and Q could polarise the windows and just... _have_ him over the desk or against the wall.

The fact that doing so would destroy their working relationship, shatter Q’s credibility, and probably get them both sacked seemed almost unimportant compared to Q’s all-too-vivid imagination. Damn Bond for his bespoke suits and those impossibly tight jeans and the way he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves on Saturday.

A flash of light caught his attention. He looked up at his monitor and saw he was about to be logged out of the secure database due to inactivity. He’d stopped typing at some point — at least five minutes ago. He knew that Bond had to have noticed, but he didn’t dare look over at him. Of course, with his workstation near the back of the room, facing the door, he could _see_ Bond, if he allowed his focus to slip even a little to the side of his monitor.

Instead, he looked down at the keyboard, hit ESC to clear the warning, and tried to remember what the fuck he’d been doing before James Bond had apparently managed to completely scatter his wits.


	6. Chapter 6

**Monday, 21 January 2013**

Bond had stopped even trying to make sense of his reports. He was preternaturally aware of everything Q was doing — every pause in his typing, the way he lifted his mug to sip his tea, the maddening habit he had of licking his lips after every other bite of the scone that had disappeared too long ago. Twice, Bond went to top up his coffee cup, just to have the excuse to walk past Q. Twice, he noted Q’s subtle reaction to his presence, the way his fingers paused for just a moment as he shifted his weight. Bond found himself staring at the wall on several occasions, straining his ears to try to figure out what Q was doing by listening to the soft shift of his clothing.

Bond stared through his laptop screen. Thinking of Q’s clothing reminded him of the sensual array of fabrics in Q’s closet, and inevitably led to the outfit that Q had been wearing at the club. Bond was used to sitting motionless for long periods of time on a mission; today, however, he was finding it hard to keep from squirming in his office chair. God, those leather trousers... Bond thought of the small, bone-handled hunting knife that he kept on his dresser, and pictured the tip slowly slicing through the laces on the sides as Q arched beneath him.

 _Pull yourself together, 007,_ he reprimanded himself sharply. Never mind the way the leather had softly hugged the curves of Q’s arse, or the way it outlined his graceful slenderness. Never mind the beatific wantonness of Q’s face as he danced. Forget that gorgeous bed, and how Q’s pale skin would look in contrast to the white of his coverlet.

Jesus, he had it bad.

“007?” Q asked, standing closer than he should have been. Bond looked up to see Q had abandoned his desk and now stood beside Bond’s temporary workstation. “Lunch is here.”

“Lunch. Right.” Bond stood, and suddenly they were only a few inches apart. Bond looked at Q, suddenly very aware of their slight height difference and the way Q still seemed to control the dynamic between them. He could be so reckless right now, Bond thought; he could reach out and finally feel the skin at the base of Q’s throat, just where he’d been wanting to taste it all day. His hand actually twitched at his side before he stopped himself. He glanced away. “Lunch sounds fantastic.”

Q stood there, close to him, for a second too long — long enough to make Bond wonder. Then he turned and quietly left the office, stepping out into the noise and bustle of techs descending on the lunch Q had apparently ordered not just for himself and Bond but for the entire department. Holding the door for Bond, Q looked back, and he was _almost_ perfectly composed, except for the hint of darkness in his eyes, pupils too wide for the bright light of the well-lit office.

Bond smiled his thanks and carefully avoided touching Q as he passed through the doorway. He needed to get some distance between them; he felt, not stifled or confined, but _intimate_ , as though the time that he and Q had spent together, not talking, just working in the same space, had raised the level of awareness of each other’s bodies too high. Moving toward the crowd, he thought with relief that a little company would relax the tension collecting in his shoulders and dissipate the knot of desire slowly growing in his gut.

Watching Q slide smoothly into the crowd didn’t help, though. His employees obviously admired and trusted him, despite his apparent youth. He had a gravitas and confidence that predisposed others to trust him, and he’d proven his trustworthiness over the past months since he’d taken up the position at Q Branch. He wasn’t an effusive boss, didn’t slap shoulders or laugh too loudly or give unearned compliments; he did his job, fairly, and expected everyone else to do theirs. It was evident to Bond that Q’s quiet approbation was worth more to his techs than showy trinkets or loud praise. And that, Bond decided, was damned sexy.

Sighing to himself, he found some familiar faces in the crowd to smile at, and moved toward the tables where a simple buffet had been assembled. The tech who fell in behind him asked, “So, how’s your day —”

“I’m certain it’s lovely,” interrupted Q’s second-in-command, Danielle. She’d been in the department longer than the now-deceased Major Boothroyd. She stepped resolutely to Bond’s side and said, “If you need any help, do let me know, 007.”

Bond grinned at her. “Don’t scare the boy, Danielle. I may need him someday.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “It really is lovely to see _you_ , even in my incarcerated state.”

“Given the alternative, I thought you’d welcome the chance to be down here, where we’re actually _working_ today,” she said wryly, giving him a flat look. She reached past him to pick up a plate and a linen napkin rolled around flatware. “If you’re nice, perhaps we can take you to the firing range later.”

“Oh, yes please, Mum,” Bond teased, and got another black look in return. He grabbed a plate and silverware for himself. “I’ll be a good boy.”

“Never change, 007,” Danielle said with a huff as she picked up a couple of pieces of garlic bread. “We actually _could_ use initial input on some new ammunition loads we’re testing.”

“I’d love to,” Bond said sincerely. “I’ll ask Q if he’ll let me off the leash later. Maybe he’d even like to come with me, get some time away from the monitor.” He grinned as Danielle raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, _really_?” she asked, giving him a knowing look as she went for the tray of penne. She lowered her voice and added, “I thought you and 006 had a policy against upper management.”

Bond’s eyes unerringly went to Q where he was chatting with a group of programmers, his face animated, his hair even more so. He gave Danielle a wry smile and said, “I may have to make an exception.”

She sighed and went to spoon meatballs and sauce over her pasta. “I swear, 007, if you drive him to quit, I will send you to Moscow armed with a slingshot and one of those tiny little golf course pencils,” she threatened in a whisper. “Do you understand?”

Bond chuckled. “Not even a challenge, Danielle. But I understand.”

Danielle put a hand out, stopping him as he reached for the chicken. She looked closely at him, eyes narrowing. Then, frowning, she dropped her hand and glanced in Q’s direction. “Don’t bugger this up, James,” she said quietly.

Bond huffed in surprise. “Why aren’t you a Double O again, Danielle? Nothing gets past you.”

“I’m something far more terrifying,” she said, and turned away from the buffet table. “A grandmother.”

 

~~~

 

Q carefully secured himself the last seat at one of the group workstations with two of his engineers, a demolitions specialist, and two cryptographers, ensuring at least a momentary break from 007’s presence. He happily spent the next thirty-five minutes discussing dual-boot operating systems with an encrypted, hidden partition accessible through software versus hardware, and by the time he’d finished the last of his lunch, the tension crackling along his spine had eased.

He got up, already thinking of potential uses for the partition devices — USB drives sent out in the field, for one — and went back to the buffet table. The food had been ravaged, and his techs had already made inroads into the desserts. He switched to a fresh plate, scooped up two cannolis, and stood for a moment, debating the tiramisu versus cheesecake.

“I recommend the tiramisu,” said Bond from right behind him, and Q nearly jumped out of his skin. How the _hell_ could someone like Bond be so damned _silent_?

Q glared at him, thinking unkind thoughts about bells that led to absolutely _wrong_ thoughts about collars, momentarily distracting him until he thought naturally about the weekend and Bond’s not-so-subtle stalking.

He deliberately turned back to get a slice of cheesecake. “Ready to get back to work, 007?” he asked as steadily as he could.

“Whenever you’re ready, Q,” said Bond easily. “I spoke with Danielle earlier, and she mentioned there were some new ammo loads that needed testing. She wondered if I was available this afternoon. What do you think?”

Q’s first thought was to flat-out refuse; Bond was _his_ for the day. Then he realised that locking Bond in the firing range with Danielle would give Q the opportunity to find his equilibrium again — possibly even a measure of professionalism.

It was the perfect solution, distasteful as that was.

“I think that could be a productive use of your time, yes,” he agreed. And since Bond would surely take the _entire_ afternoon, Q would be able to put away the borrowed laptop and reclaim his space, making the office his own again. So he wouldn’t have to think about Bond every time he looked into that corner of the room.

“Excellent,” Bond replied, grinning. “What about you? Would you like to join me? Shoot a few rounds, get your time in?” All MI6 management were required to be licenced in firearms, and had to have a certain number of hours clocked at the range every month.

That, Q thought, was a spectacularly bad idea. “I have” — his mind went blank for a moment as he realised ‘dessert to eat’ wouldn’t be a good excuse at all — “a database front-end to design.”

Bond grinned his devastating smile. “Nowhere near as fun as shooting guns. Come on, Q, deadly projectile weapons and explosions. Don’t try to resist.”

“Yes, but some of us have responsibilities,” Q answered, picking up a fresh dessert fork from the silverware basket. “I’ll make the arrangements for one of the techs to accompany you to record the data. And don’t think to use this opportunity to sneak upstairs. I’ll disable both your access cards for the lift, and I’ll be monitoring the emergency stairwells.”

 _There_ , Q thought, giving Bond a brusque nod and starting away. Virtue was a small comfort when faced with the alternative, but he was a professional.

“Three targets, fifteen rounds, winner pays for dinner,” Bond said from behind him.

Q stopped.

 _No_.

He wasn’t going to be baited. He _was not_. Bond was constantly in the top three marksmen of the Double O programme — often _the_ top. And right behind that thought came the memory of what Q had said earlier. _Don’t confuse that with being a top anything else_.

He turned, already wording the reprimand, and met Bond’s cool blue eyes impassively. “Fifteen, twenty-five, and fifty feet,” Q said.

Bond grinned, eyes alight. “You’re on.”

 _Fuck_.

 

~~~

 

Most execs, Bond knew, did their qualifications on 9mm, .22, or — on very rare occasions — .38 revolvers. So when Q used his access code to enter the armoury to check out guns and ammunition, Bond was already calculating just how badly he’d be able to beat Q’s score. All Bond had to do was steer him away from the 9mm to the .45 or even .40, and he’d be set.

Or so he thought.

Q let himself into the weapons and ammo cage, firmly locking Bond out. “Did you have something specific in mind, or will a .45 do?” Q asked as he headed for the handgun locker.

Bond silently berated himself for his assumption. He should know better than to base his calibre on appearances. “The .45 is fine, Q,” he called. “Perfect, in fact.”

He watched through the fencing as Q nodded, unlocked the locker, and took two SIG P220s out. He set them down on the counter, scanning each one’s barcode into the computer to check them out. “Hold those, please,” he said, shoving them under the wire to Bond before he went to get ammunition. “Fifty rounds to sight in sufficient?”

“I should bloody hope so,” muttered Bond under his breath. “Fine,” he said, louder, and caught sight of Q’s smirk.

“The experimental ammunition should already be at the range by now,” Q said blandly as he started stacking boxes. Then he frowned and asked, “Will we need something to carry all of this?”

Normally, Bond would just call anyone of lower rank in MI6 (meaning almost everyone) to assist. Now, he started loading his pockets with boxes, not caring what it did to the line of his jacket. “Bring some extra empty magazines and loaders,” was all he said.

 

~~~

 

The ranges at MI6 were equipped with computerised targeting systems, which did away with inaccurate scoring and accuracy tracking. Bond logged into his lane with his ID and then started slotting rounds into one of the loaders. A quick push compressed the magazine and loaded the rounds without any fumbling. In the next lane over, he could hear Q doing the same.

“Sighting in at twenty-five?” Bond asked.

“At first, yes,” Q answered. “Ten or fifteen rounds, at any rate. That should be sufficient to uncover any gross faults in the sights. Then I’ll switch to fifty for the rest.”

“All right,” Bond said, satisfied at this point that Q knew perfectly well what he was doing, and was probably going to exceed all his expectations with his marksmanship. He had thought perhaps that he’d be able to offer Q some pointers; from the casual ease with which Q handled the weapons and ammo, however, Bond knew that wouldn’t be the case. “Ready when you are.”

“Take your time,” Q said, though a moment later, Bond saw the light in Q’s targeting lane come on, illuminating a floor-mounted target at twenty-five feet. He began firing, and though Bond kept loading magazines, he couldn’t help but keep an eye on Q’s target. He seemed competent, able to hit within the concentric ring target, though his grouping of shots wasn’t particularly tight.

A bit relieved, Bond turned his attention to sighting in his own weapon. Sometimes, he wished the armoury would issue the same weapon every time, but logically he knew it was better to practice on a variety than to get accustomed to a particular weapon’s characteristics.

He gave himself two magazines to get comfortable with the .45. Then, unable to resist the lure, he set his weapon down and stepped around the partition wall to stand behind Q, watching.

To his surprise, Q was firing one-handed, despite the weight and recoil of the .45. Bond watched Q, realising how comfortable he was with this particular calibre of weapon, and how as his body accustomed itself to firing, the grouping of Q’s shots got tighter and tighter. If he was that good one-handed, the stability of a two-handed grip would reduce his grouping to under an inch. Bond was impressed.

“Have you considered a more traditional stance?” he asked when Q dropped the empty magazine.

“Mmm, it doesn’t work for me,” Q said, picking up another magazine. He pushed it into the grip with a slap to lock it in place and then switched hands. He turned to lead with his left foot and started firing, right arm pulled back. His shoulders weren’t quite in a straight line with his firing arm, which made no sense to Bond; if he were trying for some sort of seventeenth-century duellist’s stance, he should be completely perpendicular to the target.

“Did you learn archery as a child?” he asked, trying to figure out why Q would be turned slightly.

“Not as such.” He paused in his firing and looked back over his shoulder. “Is there a problem, 007?”

Bond smiled, seeing his opportunity. “May I?” he asked, taking a step closer to Q.

With a surprised blink, Q turned the weapon to offer it. “What —”

“Like this,” Bond interrupted, reaching around Q to take hold of his forearms, rather than the .45. He caught sight of Q’s eyes — now almost hazel in the darkness of the shadowy range — before he turned Q to face the target directly. “Start with a right-hand grip.”

“007,” Q warned, though he switched the SIG back to his right hand.

“I’m helping,” Bond said innocently, sliding his hands down to Q’s wrists. The touch of his fingertips on Q’s bare skin was electric; he felt the man tense and go very still. If not for the bulky hearing protectors, Bond might have been tempted to go for his throat or ear; as it was, he closed the last half inch between them, pressing their bodies together from shoulders to hips.

“Bond —”

Grinning at the slip, Bond said, “Left hand under the right, for support. Relax your wrist and elbow.” He trailed his fingers lightly over Q’s right hand and cupped his hand under his left wrist.

“I’ve done this before,” Q said tightly.

“Not with me,” Bond purred, lowering his voice. “This grip offers more stability. You can aim faster by bending one arm or the other, without losing strength. Go on. Try it.”

Q let out a breath that Bond felt, a slide of Q’s body that threatened to distract him from the impromptu lesson. “Considering that you’re not going to be behind me should I actually have need to defend myself, I hardly see the point of this,” he said tightly.

Bond grinned, hearing the strain in Q’s voice. “Hmm, but this way I get to ruin your aim, Q,” he said.

“Very efficient,” Q muttered, though it came off sulky rather than sharp. He started firing, and Bond watched with some surprise as every round hit well outside the outermost ring on the target. They weren’t even all grouped in the same area; Bond wasn’t even certain they all _hit_ the target.

“Did you —”

“No,” Q interrupted, pulling free of Bond’s hands. He set the SIG down and turned in Bond’s arms, and for one moment, barely an inch separated them. Then he put a hand on Bond’s chest and held him at bay. “Thank you, 007, but I’ll continue on as I was,” he said, and abruptly stepped back, only to bump into the firing shelf not six inches back. The shelf was hinged, and though it didn’t drop out of place, the magazines rattled and rounds bounced off, scattering across the floor.

It was the first time Bond had ever seen Q move with anything less than perfect grace and control. It startled him and, without thinking about it, he grabbed Q by the upper arms to steady him.

Q went perfectly still.

They were close, so close that if Bond just tipped his head a little, just bent forward a little, he could press his lips to Q’s.

Instead, he waited for Q to pull free — expected him to — but for one moment, Q stood there, unprotesting. He took a breath, clearly trying to find his equilibrium, and met Bond’s eyes.

“We aren’t doing this,” Q said quietly, moving his hands to Bond’s waist. His thumbs pressed over Bond’s hips, not yet pushing him away but still hard enough to warn him off.

“Of course we aren’t.” Bond didn’t move, didn’t lean forward. He kept his grip on Q’s arms firm but not unbreakable. He returned Q’s gaze steadily, fascinated with how Q’s pupils had gone huge and black in the soft light, giving his eyes a deep green cast once more. The signs of arousal were unmistakable — the subtle tinge of colour in his winter-pale skin, the rapid breaths, even the way his tongue darted out to sweep over his lips just as it had at the club, on the dance floor, when he’d lured his second partner to him.

Q took one more breath, and Bond anticipated a push back and a sharp, professionally distant reprimand.

He didn’t expect Q to step with him, giving a sideways push and twist that shoved him back against the partition wall between the firing lanes.

“I am _not_ doing this here and now — and certainly not with my most difficult agent,” Q warned, his lips so close that Bond could feel the heat of his breath.

Bond just barely prevented himself from pushing his hips forward into Q’s, from grasping the nape of his neck and claiming his mouth. He stayed motionless, waiting, his eyes hot on Q’s face, his breathing hard and fast. After a moment, he tilted his head back, slowly, slowly, until the back of his head hit the partition wall with a soft thud.

He felt Q move a bare instant before teeth closed on his throat, and Q’s slender body pressed against him from knees to shoulders. His fingers dug against Bond’s hips with painful, bruising strength, and his erection — thank god he was genuinely interested — sent sparks through Bond’s own, making him silently curse the layers of fabric separating their bodies.

Bond growled and finally let himself move, sliding one hand up Q’s arm to the back of his neck, the other grabbing Q’s gorgeous arse and pulling. He ground his hips against Q, who finally relinquished his hold on Bond’s throat with a quietly hissed inhale.

He tossed his head, reminding Bond of a restless predator, and pushed back, breaking Bond’s hold with a sinuous twist of his body. “No,” he scolded sharply, meeting Bond’s eyes once more. He stepped to his left and snatched up his .45. “Back to your lane, 007.”

Bond looked at him, incredulous, then barked out a sharp laugh. “Bloody tease,” he said darkly, rubbing his neck. “I should take you over my knee.” He leaned against the partition for another moment to collect himself, then moved back into his own lane, shaking his head. He’d be damned if he’d give Q the satisfaction of seeing him rattled any more than he already had.

He watched as the distant target lit up again in Q’s lane. Then, at a steady pace of one shot every half-second, Q emptied a magazine into the dead centre of the paper target.

Bond didn’t whistle in admiration, but it was close. He took his time loading his own weapon, letting the familiar rhythm calm him. He pressed the control button for a fresh target at fifty yards and watched it rise from the floor. Raising his weapon, he took careful aim, took a breath in and let it out, and squeezed the trigger.

Ten shots later, he looked in satisfaction at his target. Not quite as clean a grouping as Q’s, damn his gorgeous eyes, but quite respectable. He ejected the empty magazine and tossed it on the table, then grabbed a full one and rammed it home. He loaded another target and found his stance, ready to annihilate some paper.

What the hell was Q playing at? He certainly had proven his interest with that little display. Bond sighed impatiently as his target rose, pristine under the glowing lights, and blew a fucking hole through it.

Beside him, Q switched to a fresh magazine and emptied it again, this time an inch to the right. The grouping was almost identical.

Bond listened as Q ejected the empty magazine and set the weapon down. A moment later, Q tapped his shoulder — a safe way to warn an armed shooter of his presence. When Bond lowered the .45, Q said, “I’m going to log into the targeting computer, if you’d like to switch to the experimental ammunition at any time.”

Bond eyed Q as he went to the targeting computer in the back corner. How the hell he could be so cool after... what he’d done? Bond rubbed his neck again, certain there would be a mark there the next day. “All right; I’ll set it up. Be sure to stay behind the barricade as I’m firing.”

“Of course, 007,” Q said calmly over the steady, measured rhythm of his typing.


	7. Chapter 7

**Monday, 21 January 2013**

Two more hours on the firing range, never coming closer than three feet from Q, did little to calm Bond’s nerves. He was far too conscious of Q’s typing, and the sound of Q’s steady voice was maddening. But he played along, switching between different ammunition types as prompted, and waited for his opportunity.

It came earlier than he expected, just seconds after Q’s mobile buzzed with a text alert. Q stopped typing, and Bond looked back to see him read the text. Then Q stood and asked, “Are you finished?”

Bond just looked at him. “I can be,” he replied, checking the magazine he’d just retrieved and slotting it into his weapon. “You need me for something besides target practice?”

Q gave him an odd smile. “I was thinking sushi, actually. Unless you’d like to dispute my score.”

“Since I think that would be counterproductive, I’ll go with the sushi. Do you have somewhere in mind?” Bond busied himself with his weapon, removing the magazine he’d just pushed home and pulling back the slide to check the firing chamber. They’d have to clean their weapons before they left — unless Q had a minion lined up, which was possible. Between him and Q, they had managed to spread several dozen empty magazines and hundreds of spent shells all over the range.

“We’ll do the bar at Zuma. It’s close to your flat,” Q declared, stripping off his hearing protectors and safety glasses. “And to here, so you can drop me off to pick up my car,” he added with a faint little smile. He tossed down his safety gear and said, “Leave all that. I’ll have someone tend to it.”

Bond automatically removed his own safety gear and dropped it next to Q’s. Had that been an invitation to something more than dinner? After Q’s little performance earlier, he felt wrong-footed — an unusual situation for him, and one that made him slightly uneasy. Well, he had decided to wait and let Q take the lead — mostly — so he merely smiled at Q and waited for him to head toward the door.

Q sent a text, holstered his phone, and started that way. “I want to shower first. Toxic residue and sushi don’t mix,” he said without looking back. “Shall we meet in the garage in an hour?”

“If we don’t meet in the locker room first,” said Bond with a grin. Maybe he’d get to see what was under those boring clothes before dinner after all. Q held the door for him, face carefully neutral, dark eyes unreadable. Bond followed him into the hallway. “I don’t want to know what the chemicals in those experimental rounds would do to my tender skin.”

Q’s laugh was low, barely a breath, but when he looked back over his shoulder — so innocent and harmless looking behind his glasses and messy hair — Bond imagined he could feel that laugh over his skin. “I’m certain you’ve done far worse to yourself.” He closed the door behind Bond and typed in a code, locking it, before he headed in the direction of the locker rooms.

Bond followed, feeling like a hunting hound trailing the scent of a big cat. Q was graceful, even walking down the hallway, and Bond lagged a bit to appreciate the fit of Q’s trousers over his slim hips. He caught up just as Q turned through the locker room doorway; he moved to the right, toward the bank of lockers nearest the row of showers, and Bond hesitated before turning left and heading to the locker where he kept his spare changes of clothing. He wanted so badly to follow Q, but his instincts were telling him to back off, and in this case, at least, he was going to obey them.

He opened his locker and stripped efficiently before slinging a towel around his waist and heading toward the communal shower area. Bond doubted that Q would be there; he seemed the type to want one of the private shower stalls, especially since he knew Bond would be showering as well. Bond grinned. At least if Q were looking, he’d be able to get an eyeful of Bond. And Bond hoped he’d be looking.

It was at least ten minutes before Bond heard another shower start up. He twisted automatically and found himself staring at long, pale limbs just starting to be lost under streams of water. Q ducked his head under the spray and raised his hands, pushing his fingers through his hair as he arched back. Every muscle tensed and stretched, from toes to neck, like a cat being petted.

Bond swallowed and tore his eyes away. There was no way he could watch — just that split second of seeing Q naked, wet, and arching had sent a bolt of desire down his spine. He fumbled for the soap and concentrated on scrubbing his hands clean under the rush of water. He very carefully didn’t turn his back on Q, but just as carefully didn’t let his eyes stray to Q’s figure, just seen at the periphery of his vision, bending and twisting as he bathed.

“007. Would you mind washing my back?”

He couldn’t have heard that right.

“Pardon?”

“My back, 007. Or do I need to recite the chemical composition of residue from the thousands of rounds we fired?” he asked, twisting to look back at Bond. He turned enough to extend a soapy flannel.

Bond stared at Q, then at the flannel. He slowly took a step forward, reached out a hand and tugged the flannel from Q’s grasp.

“Are you sure you want me to do this?” he said softly. “I’m not known for my self-control.”

“I do hope you’re not under any illusions about my ability to _keep_ you under control,” Q said, turning to face the water again, looking absolutely calm and relaxed.

Bond closed his eyes for a moment. He felt the flannel in his hand, felt the water droplets in the air cling and slide down his body, felt his feet firmly on the tile floor. He could do this. He could, because what was the alternative? Say no, walk away? He could do this — because walking away, he knew, would cost him any chance of touching that lithe body ever again. And just in case _this_ would be his single chance, he would not hesitate again.

Folding the flannel carefully into four, Bond stepped closer to Q, noting how the lines of falling water outlined his pale form. Holding the flannel in his right hand, he reached forward with his left and stroked the back of Q’s neck, moving the wet strands of hair to the side. Carefully he laid his left palm flat on Q’s shoulder, holding him steady, and drew the soapy flannel slowly down the line of Q’s spine to the dip at the small of his back. Q dropped his head forward and gave a little shudder; Bond took the opportunity to curve his hand around Q’s shoulder, gliding his fingers across wet skin, gripping slightly. He moved the flannel again, up the sweet groove of Q’s back, before gently circling the cloth on Q’s shoulderblades.

Bond continued to wash Q, moving his anchoring hand as necessary to keep Q steady: first flat against his ribs, then curled around the curve of his waist, then firm on his hip. Q stood silently, though he moved under Bond’s hand, bringing to mind the image of a cat again — only this time, instead of responding to the flow of hot water, it was Bond’s touch that made him arch and move and twist in subtle little movements, perceptible more to touch than sight, as if he gave in fully to the experience of Bond’s hands on his body without a care in the world that they weren’t in private.

“You know we’re being monitored right now,” Bond murmured quietly. Q didn’t seem to react at all.

“The shower stalls and changing areas in the locker rooms are the only non-loo areas in MI6 that _aren’t_ monitored,” Q answered steadily. “Given that I was in charge of deploying our enhanced security measures after the Silva incident, I can assure you of that.” He straightened, flexing his shoulders, and twisted enough to hold out his hand as he met Bond’s eyes.

“My turn,” said Bond, grinning down at him and handing him the flannel.

Q took it and turned to face Bond without even a hint of modesty. He arched a brow expectantly.

Bond turned his back obediently, still grinning. Q let out a breath that sounded like a soft laugh. His left hand slipped over Bond’s shoulder, fingertips barely touching. They skimmed forward, over his collarbone, the touch growing lighter until only one finger rested at the hollow of Bond’s throat. Only then did he press the flannel to the centre of Bond’s back, rubbing just hard enough to make Bond lean forward, into his other hand. Bond swallowed reflexively, suddenly conscious of that single touch. Bond tipped his head forward; if he concentrated, he could feel the heat of Q’s body ghosting off his, like a static charge, when all the hairs on his body tried to rise despite being slick with water.

Q swept the flannel down Bond’s spine, letting the trailing edges brush over his arse without any pressure; Q’s hand stayed firmly at the level of Bond’s waist. He rubbed the cloth up one side of Bond’s spine, making little circles. His fingers never directly touched Bond’s back. The only skin-to-skin contact at all was that single fingertip held to Bond’s throat. It was _almost_ enough, _almost_ a threat — even one more finger, or if the touch had been higher, and Bond’s reflexes would have taken control, sending him into an instinctive self-defence attack, but Q never pushed quite that far.

And he probably knew precisely what he was doing to Bond’s overtrained mind.

As Q skirted that line between arousal and attack, sex and violence, Bond shuddered. This subtlety, if indeed that’s what it was, confused his senses as well as his brain. Another instance of Q beckoning with one hand and pushing away with the other, Bond thought, and he would either fuck or shoot. He wasn’t sure which one he wanted to do more.

Then, as Q swept the cloth down once more, ends trailing all the way to the curve of his arse, he said, “You’re done. Thank you, 007.” He pulled his other hand back, without even one last touch, and turned to the shower.

Bond closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He reminded himself that he had asked for this; with his challenge at lunchtime, with their confrontation in the firing range, with his following Q to the locker rooms, he had shown his interest and left the pursuit to Q. If Q was going to tease and not follow through, so be it — for tonight. At least he’d get dinner. Shaking his head to clear it, he stepped back under the falling water and rinsed himself clean. When he shut the water off and opened his eyes again, Q had gone.

 

~~~

 

James Bond was _not_ supposed to be this fascinating. He was intelligent, yes — even brilliant — but he was also violent, impulsive, and prone to childish outbursts. This... this _sophistication_ wasn’t something Q had expected, and he was torn between rewarding this behaviour and pushing even harder to see just where Bond’s breaking point really was.

Well, not torn. Just the thought of pushing made Q grin as he changed into the spare clothes he kept in his locker, black trousers and a grey brushed cotton shirt, meant to be worn home after working out. It would do for their dinner date, though it was unfortunately conservative. If Bond had tailed him from the nightclub (and he had no reason to believe Bond had simply stumbled upon him at the hotel), then that meant Q’s _other_ wardrobe had caught his attention.

Another theory to test, hopefully sometime soon.

Leaving his other clothes in his locker, he went to the hallway outside the locker room and accessed building security on his mobile. He’d had to write the app for it, something that was technically not covered by regs; building security was meant to be accessed by tablet or desktop, not smartphone, but they’d hired a genius. They expected this sort of thing from him — assuming someone ever checked, which wouldn’t happen.

He saw no sign of the delegation from the Shining Throne. Hopefully they’d gone, satisfied with whatever they’d seen. Q made a mental note to check with his team to find out how the false Q Branch lab had gone over, on the tour. At least Mallory had agreed that showing them the real thing would be the height of idiocy.

He _loathed_ diplomats.

Bond came out of the locker room a few minutes later, wearing a grey suit that Q hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t out of date, but the little details weren’t as modern as his other suits. He’d left off his tie, and the top two buttons of his white shirt were undone. Q looked right at the hollow of his throat, remembering how Bond’s pulse had jumped and raced at the press of his finger.

Bond watched Q watch him. He swallowed, and Q followed the movement of his throat, then flicked his gaze away.

“Ready?” Bond said, and smiled.

Q waited, letting the seconds stretch out before he nodded. “Richard James?” he asked, studying the cut of the suit more closely. It fit beautifully and had been tailored to allow Bond a more full range of movement than was strictly Savile Row standard.

“Yes, although this one’s from seasons ago.” Bond pulled the sleeves down a bit, frowning. “Might be time for a fitting.”

One of the ones from before Bond’s ‘death’, then. He’d rebuilt his wardrobe after; most of the suits Q had seen him wearing were so new, they practically still bore traces of tailor’s chalk at the seams. Had he kept it for sentiment or practicality?

“It fits well enough,” Q observed, reaching out to flatten his hand over the shoulder holster he knew Bond was wearing. “Have it taken in a half-inch. The Walther’s more compact than your old weapon.”

“Mmm.” Bond flipped the jacket open and shut, fastened the button, looked over his shoulder down the line of his back, as if he could see what the suit looked like. It was... endearing, and Q had the sudden urge to drag Bond to a tailor whose house style was more suited for his physique. “I do hate it when the jacket looks asymmetrical. Good idea, thanks.” He smiled slyly at Q, his eyes intent. “I appreciate sartorial advice from someone so knowledgeable.”

Resisting the urge to comment on Bond’s vocabulary, Q simply said, “Your tailor’s recent efforts are more subtle, or I would have commented earlier. As it is, you’re the reason for the updated holster design.” He knew Bond had noticed when he’d been issued the new holster — every other Double O had, and every one had come to complain about retraining and draw angle until he’d seriously given thought to simply shooting the next one that bitched _without_ trying it first. Of course, Bond’s had been issued in the field; presumably he’d worked through any familiarisation issues on his own or with the help of the local station’s quartermaster.

“Ah.” Bond lifted an eyebrow. “I’m grateful. The redesign’s taken tenths of a second off my draw.” He chuckled. “Not everyone was as pleased as I am, at least not at first. Change comes hard to the Double O’s, sometimes, although you’d think we’d be used to it.”

As they stopped at the lift that would take them down to the parking garage, Q couldn’t help but tease, “You’re still not getting an exploding pen, 007. Let’s keep our relationship realistic.”

Bond snorted. “I think that ship has sailed, Q.” The lift dinged, the doors opened, and Bond stepped through, grinning.

When he grinned — genuinely, without that sharp, sarcastic, self-loathing edge he almost always had — his expression lit up his eyes in a way that made Q want to chase down Bond’s thoughts and find a way to keep them there. Of all of his problem agents, Bond was the most infuriatingly self-destructive and the least deserving of such masochism. Every mission failure was a personal offence to Bond, as if he could control such variables as the weather and his targets’ schedules.

Only the knowledge that the lift cameras worked in beautiful, full-colour, high-resolution detail kept Q from kissing him on the spot, just to reward him for that grin. Instead, he said, “My perception of our relationship is entirely realistic. _I_ know what I’m capable of, even if you don’t.”

Bond huffed out a laugh. “And I’m sure you know what _I’m_ capable of, as well.”

“Actually, I’ve only observed you on sanctioned missions,” Q said, allowing a sharp edge to come into his voice. “You’re the one who’s overstepped his bounds.” He met Bond’s eyes, and Bond narrowed his, tensing a bit at his tone. Then, with a quick smirk, Q added, “Or the one who missed the opportunity for more direct observation. I’ll let you decide which.”

Bond relaxed almost imperceptibly. “What I’ve observed of you in the past week has definitely made me think that overstepping my bounds is either a good idea or the worst I’ve had in quite some time.” Bond shifted his shoulders a bit, as if to settle his jacket. Q laughed, low, amused, and dangerous, and felt more than saw Bond shiver.

This was reckless, Q knew, but he couldn’t help himself. Bond was too interesting to send running off with a sharp reprimand and an ignored note in his personnel file. He just wondered if there was a way to keep this game — one Q _didn’t_ play with co-workers — from destroying them both.

 

~~~

 

“I’ve always admired Jaguar’s engineering,” Q said, his voice a low, appreciative purr. He ran a hand along the edge of the convertible roof, finger trailing at the very edge of the passenger side window, and allowed Bond to open the door for him. The caress moved from the glass to the leather seat, and he shot a look over his shoulder that made Bond recall just how much of Q’s clothing was leather, just as butter-soft. With a smirk just barely visible at the corner of his mouth, he slid into the passenger seat.

Then, the embodiment of innocence, he turned to put on his seatbelt and gave Bond an expectant look.

Bond very emphatically did not slam the passenger door. He walked around the back of the car, opened the driver’s door, and slid in. The purr of the engine as he turned the ignition key echoed the tones of Q’s voice. Trying to concentrate on driving, Bond put the car in gear and pulled out of the parking spot.

His foot nearly slipped when Q’s hand brushed over his, the backs of his fingers running over the shift lever. Then, as if entirely not at fault for the positively obscene images that came to Bond’s mind, Q moved his hand forward, tracing the centre console’s controls and the edges of the dashboard computer. He dragged his nail over the stitching along the leather seat and ran his palm over the dashboard, petting the car.

Bond tried not to breathe too heavily through his nose as he navigated the streets toward Zuma and watched Q make love to his car. Q’s hands were slender, delicate but strong, and Bond firmly quelled a shiver as Q stroked the pads of his fingers over the edge of the visor. He had to rein himself in if he was planning to let Q make the first move; otherwise, he’d have him right here, up against the steering wheel, simply pull him onto his lap and _take_. Bad idea, Bond, he reprimanded himself sternly. Dinner first; then, see what happens.

By the time they finally reached valet parking, Bond was actually _jealous of his car_. Which was ridiculous. And he was tempted to shoot the valet who opened Q’s door, denying Bond the pleasure of seeing him emerge with one last caress of the leather seat.

Then Q smiled at him, eyes bright blue-green behind his glasses. “You drive beautifully,” he said, and Bond had never heard such innocent words sound so filthy, even after what felt like a lifetime of innuendo.

Bond showed his teeth in a feral grin. “I endeavour to give satisfaction, sir.” He managed to get to the restaurant’s front door first, at least, and opened it for Q to walk through. Q’s slim figure in his black trousers was arresting in its feline grace.

At the maître d’ station, Q said, “Two for the sushi bar.” They were early enough that they were led right inside, past already-full tables. Zuma was elegant and sophisticated, done up in muted shades of earth tones with bright white spotlights, and utterly lacked dark corners where Bond could push Q up against a wall and fuck him until they were both screaming, and for the first time in his life, outside of a mission, he was tempted to go to the loo and set off the damned fire alarms.

The sushi bar was only lightly occupied, and they were shown to a pair of seats at one end, by a false rock sculpture. Bond didn’t miss the way Q sat with his leg pressed to Bond’s, from thigh to knee. “Do you speak the language?” Q asked as the host set the sushi menu down between them.

“Yes, but it’s hardly necessary in London,” Bond replied. “It’s fun if the waitstaff speak it, though. You can have entire conversations about other patrons with no one the wiser.” He grinned and shifted a bit so that his thigh slid against Q’s.

Q leaned back comfortably in his chair, studying Bond with a little smile. Bond had instinctively taken the end seat at the bar; turning to face Q would let him see the room — and put Q’s back to the other diners. As if knowing no one could see his face, Q deliberately looked down Bond’s body.

“Now you’re just being a bloody tease,” said Bond softly.

“Now?” Q laughed quietly. “I’ve hardly done anything at all, Bond.”

“Really,” Bond breathed. “I can’t wait to see what you do when you get serious, then, Q.” He smiled at the sushi chef, who asked them what they’d like to start with. He looked to Q.

“Sato no Homare, please,” Q said, and Bond nodded approvingly. The chef immediately brought over a stoneware decanter and cups, pouring them each a measure. “And a sashimi platter, your choice... For two?” he asked Bond.

Bond nodded, pleased that Q was comfortable with the authentic menu items and didn’t just stick to California rolls. He sipped his sake and hummed in appreciation. He didn’t want to drink too much; he wanted to stay sharp this evening. He had a feeling he’d need every ounce of advantage he could get.

“Were you ever in Japan before you started with our company?” Q asked, innocent and discreet as could be in this public setting, though he never looked away from Bond, fixing him with the sort of intensity usually reserved for a predator choosing its dinner from a herd of prey.

“I’d been there in the Navy, of course, but not for any length of time — just stopovers.” Bond couldn’t quite believe Q wanted _conversation_. But he was trained to think clearly and keep his wits about himself under the most adverse conditions, and an hour or so at a sushi bar with a co-worker was hardly combat or interrogation.

Except, it was both. Because Q’s questions came in a steady, ceaseless stream, meaningless pleasantries punctuated with _looks_ so heated that the restaurant might well have caught fire. When Q sipped at his sake, Bond caught teasing glimpses of his tongue, and as he set down the cup, he licked his lip as though to catch an errant drop.

When the chef brought out a platter of slivers of fish, seaweed cups of roe, ginger, and wasabi, Q stopped playing fair.

Somehow, Bond wasn’t surprised that he knew how to use chopsticks. He expertly lifted delicacies off the platter between them — angled so that they faced each other, creating a tiny, intimate space at the end of the sushi bar. Then Q tipped his head back, rather than hunching forward, and let the fish curl onto his tongue, drawing Bond’s eyes up his pale throat to his mouth. His eyes closed with his lips as he savoured the taste.

After the first piece, he gave Bond an absolutely innocent, even angelic smile and looked down as though modest.

At the second, Bond had to restrain himself from lunging over the space between them and following Q’s chopsticks into his mouth. It was positively sinful, and absolutely seductive, and ridiculously charming. Bond couldn’t take his eyes off Q’s mouth, except when he was watching Q’s hands, so clever in their manipulation of the utensils. Then Q dipped one chopstick into the roe and licked it off. His tongue came out, pink and pointed, and slowly drew up the length of the chopstick. His eyes were on Bond’s, and Bond was slowly being drawn into a place where he was no longer in control. He realized, then, that Q had the upper hand — he had known it, he supposed, from the beginning, but it was only now that he truly accepted it, and at last surrendered to the inevitable. There would be no more games, he thought; what happened, happened, and damn the consequences.

All through the rest of dinner, Q teased, carefully and discreetly. He never tried to openly touch Bond, beyond the casual press of their legs, nor did he try anything so openly intimate as feeding him. But his attention never wavered, and everything he did, right down to his breathing, seemed to be for the sole purpose of capturing Bond’s eyes and attention and thoughts, until an enemy could have stormed the restaurant and Bond might well not have noticed.

When the serving tray was clear, Q asked, with that same innocence, “Dessert?”

“No, thanks,” said Bond bluntly.

“Probably best,” Q approved, looking down as he took his wallet from the pocket of his trousers. “It _is_ a work night. We’ll reserve Saturday night for dessert — or did you have other plans?”

Bond’s breath caught in his throat, and his voice was husky as he replied, “Only with you.”

Q smiled, sweet and innocent, and touched Bond’s arm. It was light, barely enough to crease the sleeve of his jacket, but it was more than he’d done all night, and it was impossible that such a little thing would set Bond’s heart to racing. “I hope this week goes smoothly, Bond. I’d hate for you to cause difficulties requiring me to work overtime this weekend.”

“You can be sure I’ll be on my best behaviour for the next several days.” He met Q’s eyes for a split second; they were huge, and dark, and Bond couldn’t quite name the expression they contained. He lowered his gaze to the table, where Q’s hand lay, tracing circles on his white serviette with a forefinger.

“I expect that means you’ll be able to catch up on your rest. Medical will be so pleased,” Q said, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice. “You should probably go home immediately after work each night.”

“Q,” Bond said, a hint of despair in his voice at this...Was it a command? “I...” He trailed off, for once at a loss for words.

“I don’t want you exhausted for Saturday,” Q said, calmly and steadily, as if there was something _sane_ about this conversation at all. “Not at all exhausted,” he added, an edge coming into his voice. “Not even by your own hand.”

Bond closed his eyes, finally, completely overcome. He could feel — and when was the last time _that_ had happened? — a flush staining his cheeks. He breathed steadily through his nose, in, out, in, out, but still felt like he’d just sprinted a hundred metres. Was this really happening? Had his quartermaster _really_ just ordered him to keep his hands off himself until Saturday? And did this actually mean anything besides Q’s little possessive, dominating, mind-fucking games? Bond really, really wished he knew.

“Yes, Q,” he said, finally, opening his eyes in surrender.

Q stared at him, and Bond _almost_ thought he was completely unaffected, except for the way he went still, not even breathing. And when he smiled, fingers pressing into Bond’s arm for a moment, Bond saw a flash of what looked like excitement light up Q’s eyes. Then Q turned away to settle the bill, and though they didn’t touch again as they left the restaurant, Bond could still feel Q’s hand on his arm.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Book cover for Shadow Aspect by Kryptaria and Reluctantabandon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/726529) by [catonspeed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catonspeed/pseuds/catonspeed)




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